In my courtyard stands the city, Tessellated like a starry sky.

The evening fills like a garden in spring. Raindrops efflorescence on windowpanes.

And after the rain, night would emerge Washed like a glass of cut crystal.

The dust-covered evening will morph Into a low simmer of red, neon flashing

Or perhaps ribs cooking on coal. I breathe deep. Is this the scent of meat?

Or is it the fragrance of the Stranger, One who will stab me in my dreams?