I leave my room, my past, my life, and descend to the street I can map in my dreams. Jaffa crumbles before my eyes. I know where the stone steps die, labyrinth opens, pink flower blooms. Bell tower just ahead.
Toes cling to cobbles, understand how stone turns to flesh.
A Russian whore sizzles tomatoes in garlic, her pimp grins goldtoothed on a cane chair outside the hotel. Past the blue bookstore, and iron railings, a woman beats secrets as if they were carpets. Tracking you, threaded to you. Pink flower dangles through the gate, its raw petal brushes lips. I don't believe it, no, not you, dizzying pink.