Muğla 

Beyond the barrelsquat silo windmills 

of crumblegray stone

are the narrow white drowsy caféd streets

of Muğla asleep, 

its stoney dockless 

harbor glimpsing still emerald waters clear

and clean reflecting overhead leaves of

trees and red pinkish hybiscus in the sun,

holy lavender 

yardtrees of blooming 

leaf and bleached white short homes

hugging useless fence with old 

woodclappered 

window shutters, the 

far yet close cliff hills 

deep in green and unclimbable steep of

distant joys beneath the brightened white of

an anciently young long still sun.