zebrasindenver

Istanbul, 130am,

They are shucking oysters in the street and you think of me,

And here i think you would never write, and here i think we would never again speak,

The last time we spoke, your order was short and your temper with me apparent,

And now, me, my beer and a message from the other side of the straight,

Oysters,

Montréal is grey and somewhat painted red,

So i sit,

Grey Montréal, Istanbul, and you.