I can't help you
where you are.
The apple crown
of summer is stuck
in my humid lung
and words dry
out on the line.

It's fine to be quiet
together. When our
arms cross my Sicily
is ten shades darker
than your Istanbul.
I inhale the silent sun
and run it through
my teeth like yolk.

I hardly know what
to say. I'll be your
flying buttress, your
Pegasus wing, your
silver brace, even
as the kingdom
of my words falls
into string.