there is no moon. the indian stalks me like a kitten — pouncing, seizing. I taste his wet nose and my breath is suddenly his. I exhale stale smoke, fermented apple. I walk barefoot on the cold wood floor; he slips between my ankles. he waits, a shadow in the hallway, questioning. I have no answers. I just want tea — warmth in my mouth like life, like morning. the indian lights a cigarette. water boils, leaves steep and bloom. he says change is coming; it disturbs sleep.
it wanders into the room on silent paws.