Mulberries explode in my fingers,

purple is the name of my God,

God is July in the mountains,

mountains are the colour of a lover’s eyes:

greyish brown in February, green in May.

May and a woman is crossing Hamra,

prosecco a clutch in her arms.

Another woman touching my hair

on the red couch. The red couch,

all the nights it supervises.

Nothing comes close to Beirut in October,

chairs in the sun, heat breaking like weeks,

slow and inevitable. On Gemmayze’s stairs

a man reads a terrible song,

says his hands are tied, tired of running:

it is the sting of August when he flees.

The months are impermanent like a gaze,

come December I fling my body into fairy lights

zigzagging a tree. Swallow the city like a seed.

This is how I repay my debts, how I plead guilty.

On Karantina’s rooftop, a man says listen,

can you touch this nightmare?

All year I chase midnight

through corners and into dawn.

‍