The night sits cross-legged outside my window,
and makes me want to flee these hands.
The night is a voice of orchards gently breaking my heart,
and I remember the small feet of a woman,
and how the night once touched them, like a wounded boy.
I don’t want the night to bring me this memory of desire.
I don’t want these nights of love to describe the ruins of my sky.
But the night sits cross-legged at my window,
and calls for me by an old name.