There is a gutsy finality to
the way you add curls of cream to the cup;
a knowing glint in the chintzy sheesha,
second-hand, jewelled, meditating on the
window-seat behind you. Beds of children
form foamy chains against the azure blankets

out there, above your head. Your glasses are
windowpanes, screens to a lighter view. Curled
in your belly is a shaman with the
bold dimensions of a project. You stir.