3am in Geneva,

almond vanilla tea steaming

the small of my room.

I have a plant.

Stringy and awkward,

like me. I want to tell you

about the way hills cave in

on each other,

the stars that disrobed for the purer air.-

as if I never deserved them before.

I want to show you

the hunger of my skin

for ocean salt.

There is no Clinton Street here,

no music in the evening.

I walk alone at night;

I do not carry my switchblade

-which I use for stripping the skin

of fruits. It makes me feel prepared

endives and endeavors

like a boy scout

but dirtier

and with no knowledge of fire.

The dark is heavy and breathes

down my neck like a lover. I am not afraid

of what its closed hands hold.

Down pitch-black paths, my legs

vibrate over the stones. Sitting

on the edge of the dock, I

sing Leonard Cohen to the moon.

If I stare long enough my eyes

turn yellow and the man up there

is not a man at all but a woman

with furrowed brows and the softest

lips. I have kissed those lips

in prayer. I wear nothing now;

my limbs are tree branches,

my heart a black walnut.

The lake, too, is filled with longing.

It talks of touch through waves.

We are tender and tentative, not hesitant;

we read our reflections,

light scatters like broken speech.

I wrote a love letter to myself the other day-

a reminder that with god came the word

and the word came with god,

but that seemed too filling for breakfast

Which is when I remembered

black walnuts can make ink

and I should make my heart a writing utensil

so I can record all the loneliness

in beats