New Mosque

The man removes his shoes and washes his feet, ready for perfect concentration. The Dome of the New Mosque peaks thirty-six metres above him. He spreads legs wide open, and water trickles down, cleansing the fifth sense from its foundation.

The pillars over the court grip stories from three hundred and forty six years of aging. Thin foreign women braze in the doors with cameras, all kneecaps and bare shoulders. Locals shake heads at nonsense.

The spice market is stuffed with tea and basil. On the bridge a man sleeps in the front seat of a car striped like a zebra. Ferries and tour boats pull in and out, cross under the oval columns.

The postcard is alive and moving. If God or Allah is up in the attic, you have to wonder what she’s watching.