Maybe you’d had too much to drink, or maybe you were just dreaming— or maybe you were an I or we, or maybe it does not matter— but a pack of boys on bikes flew up and over the wide, wet crossing, and six hungry dogs in the market stared as we shared a plate of samosas. Is it right to eat outside, you asked, while so many go without? Nearby, a gang of students sat and laughed and flirted and smoked. It may have been a fever dream, or the snack we’d eaten too quickly— or just the feel of road under feet, or maybe it does not matter— an ancient road roller rumbled by as we passed the shuttered temple: you matched its speed; I slowed and searched for demons in puffs of black vapour. At the T-point by the rubbish heap, dogs studied the moon and trembled as it emerged from a bank of clouds, then hung there, like a cradle.