In the courtyard, cats are sleeping
Limbs stretched in warm channels of terra cotta
No tension in dreams
Raw experience, no symbols

They are agile over arches
Fluid between railings of gates and fences
Moving on the breeze of instinct
Like linen curtains prancing through open windows

Olive eyes watch from a balcony
Safe behind twisted ironwork and petrified flowers
Studying the dancing chance of wind-tossed canopies
And a neighbor’s secrets hopping on the wash line

Cast iron clangs and people gather
To share the taste of tortillas and tradition
They cook incense and oil for the god of survival
Kitchen curtain pulled to hide the abandoned chapel
With amorality in the troughs of its roof