Michael Stewart - Lecturer in English

Why isn't there a seam on the color wheel?

like you were blushing, your cheeks a little red from the sun very yellow, the three of you, you and your sisters, topless, warm and a little red from the sun bleached cities I had never heard of that you passed through on your way to sleeping one night in a field, a farmer waking the three of you in Bursa, in Mios, in Ios where you got lost in a jungle of steps, where you slept on the beach drinking rust colored tea and milky ouzo and thick black coffee with a thick scent of cardamom out of gold rimed tulip shaped glasses served on terraces dripping with green, or on sidewalks pushed between the push of people and the old stone walls of cafes were you wrote me postcards: three whirling dervishes, the door of Naxos framing an indigo ocean, a boy on a tight wire, a picture of a step of springs steaming in the snow, on the back of which you love me, you tell me, you spent the day in an underground city, that you had lunch on a sailboat, the blue of the sky and the blue of the water meeting without a seam, changing with one another so at night the stars are reflected back and it is like being suspended between two immeasurable spaces-it is a Van Gogh violet night when you get back, tired and smiling you make us coffee and tell me stories on the terrace, although it is very cold out, so you can smoke-you didn't smoke before you left-and you take the blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, the cherry of your cigarette blooming giving your face a red glow