Last night, I looked outside the window
from apartment 5.
I took in the smell of moonlight:
dried up husks; rainy dew;
cardamom?
I heard footsteps-
the honks of traffic lights.
Red. Green.
Clattering in the kitchen-
the bed was empty.
I was here. No wife.
The air grew cold: it was summer.
I bit my nails,
the footsteps
grow louder,
despite the honks.
I closed
the window.
She came from behind,
the smell of blood.
I screamed, but laughter:
she handed me a cup of tea.