To hold the bird and not to crush her, that is the secret. Sand

turned too quickly to cement and who cares if the builders lose

their arms? The musk of smoldered rats on sticks that trailed

their tails through tunnels underground. Trickster of light, I

walk your cobbled alleys all night long and drink your salt. City

of bones, I return to you with dust on my tongue. Return to your

ruined temple, your spirit of revolt. Return to you, the ache at

the center of the world.