This time he, the sleeping figure, I, the lion, my pupils round in their egg-whites, night-wind angling his scent dunewards. He has surprised me. I never expected a human in the sand like a god fallen asleep, a bare-throated mandolin on the pillow beside him. I smell the striped shoulder of his robe. Don’t know which path he took across the desert. On the nightstand we keep a lamp, a vase, a digital clock. Beneath the blue walls I hold the moon in my teeth and breathe on it, feel no devouring dread.