Onomonopoetry

So I was sifting through my old bedroom, and besides realizing that I have way too much shit, I found some interesting tidbits from my former selve(s). Perhaps most intriguing was a stack of old notebooks. In one of them, I discovered a large volume of scribblings that I apparently penned while I was in Istanbul, although I have no recollection of writing them.

Memory is a funny thing. It's been two years since I fell in love with the Bosphorus (the channel of water that divides the European and Asian halves of Istanbul). Is it still a part of me? Do gray waves and elusive metaphors still inform my current existence, even though I can't remember writing the poem that I copied below? What about the last six months of my life?

All these stark divisions between "here" and "there" have made it profoundly clear how fleeting things are, and the changing times have tickled my nostalgia-switch and my bewilderment-button.

Ah existence, you shifty little devil... you sure are interesting.

"Bosphorus"
listen:
     whispering cosonants
     blue voices rushing in between
ensōs cleave foghorns
and
--hush--
in the wake of these three syllables
a twitter of wings