Halogen lit up
more cyan than the sky
the pit outside
Izmir
The sun below
the horizon
doesn't make it
here. The shift
changing workers
move swift. Past
water-filled sink holes
to the locker rooms
When (or if) the damn thing
resurfaces
on the other
side
What will it bring?
Increased international
exchanges.
And money
There is a smell outside
of oil exhaust
and pride
in the moist
evening air
getting darker
—phosphorescent
Evening sky
hold gently
black mounds
of our interior
smattered with lights.
And where should that electricity come from?
Where they piled
the shipping crates
—just come in
of tunnel wall-sections.
It's wet, under
the rush of sea
water come between,
between the pieces.
Silver flash of
thermos and coffee.
Who'd've thought
This cold, on the beach
in the desert.
