chopped raw beets glistening under my knife. tossed in a bowl, glittering in olive oil. in fresh herbs. salted.

that memory, a standing in the doorway while daniel played the piano, played the typewriter. no so far, here. one sprinkling of salt over the left shouldeR. for luck. for the djinn that claws my uncertainty.

long walk down rue tanger, stop at the alimentation for sparkling water and soft mint candies. chew them under hungry eyes that shine out from under awnings and storefronts. no women on the streets near crimée after the outlaw of the burqa. just me, so bare. small star shaped blossoms spring in hard angled patterns from spindly stems. the streetlight spills deep amber light over them, the rain slick street, my white hands. the neighbor smokes out the window and doesn't return my wave, just smiles and his teeth glisten. 2D, and the door buzzes open: you know it's me. i leave the flowers in the wright iron grate that catches mail. the marble entry is derelict, the paint peels, ivory coming out of a cheek. water stains and the dark wood railing that winds three stories until your door which hangs slightly open. the smell of your american spirits and the soft tap of rain on leaves. light from the lamp glances off the bottle posed next to your materials, you have a hand in your hair and rise when i knock on the doorframe. dark face, dark eyes hide greenly under dark brows. thick you. i read your script and drink your whiskey. and i explore your space, mix my body with the air, step on all the pieces of floor that are close to the window, step out the window and crane my neck back, then forth. pass white hand over your things: books, bicycle, knives, accordeon, guitar. wake me up when you come to bed, and i fall seamlessly between this dark room

and the fur swathed man, who could have been your father. his cane. and the black robes laced in the bodies of fresh dead wolves. silver tipped. your mother, twenty years younger. silent. in a dress that reaches the ground and evening shoes. the room where we peek under opaque curtains to the low balcony leading to palm lined esplanades buried in mist and moans, buried in wet air and cocktail laughter.

where there's no pressure there's no steam. heavier and hotter. more confinement. scream louder. peal the paint off the walls.