IN PAMUKKALE
I'd been walking in circles in the hooded
dark of the village below Hierapolis' white ridge,
trying to relocate the whereabouts
of my pension, when I first heard
the high whiplash, followed by a wilful throb,
a sort of deadpan guffaw, the doubled
voice of a ventriloquist, pitched
across the empty lot. Ah, I said, and loitered,
intent upon threading
the needle of its song. And the mountains
on all sides huddled solemn as Hittites
lying in wait in the high passes. Ah, I repeated,
as I turned down the road, what
signs and wonders lead me on.