in an unknown street of Selçuc
on a timid Wednesday afternoon
a cash machine recognised me
brought my money all the way from the overseas bank
and wrote me a note
must have been the copper inside the small and rich device
that copper maybe empathised with my odd early years
its atoms were also once an unfit infant
that grew up to be a node, hardened and speedy,
and now turn their particles in cumplicity
had to run to catch the boat for Mytilini
under the metal ceiling, i lie down and watch the waves
projected from the windows on the white metal paint on top of me
the paint is not there to broadcast waters
its matter, though, soaks the seaways
must have been the pigment inside the spotless surface
its runaway fragments, longing to run amok,
craving to grasp the foam garments of the salted water
spreading the movement with envy and precision
and flagging that it also would rather be less tamed
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