Rains falls hard against the sheets of woven tile roofs,
torrenting down off their sides and flooding
the narrows in between the houses.
Two new lovers splash up a good deal
of water,
running gaily into and out of sight,
a shrill shriek of excitement and a deep laugh still echoing against the gray-blue bricks, lit gold-green in places by hanging lamps on wires,
higher up, above the thin, many windowed walls.
White purple flash. Crack of lightning.
Thunder rattles the sobbing windowpane.
A baby upstairs cries out and is soon soothed.
I think only of dinner and of you.
I will eat bulb-onion soup, with freshly picked mint.
And I will consume you,
raw.