as though moving towards a state
of sleep can steal you away, magic
occurs when flying silently, to
be among the toys of adventure,
& it's off in the land, looking
for the other eye, it will drift
by, sea shells & a key, & the
door, an honest look, will remain
ajar
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— a place on hollis —

on pages of skin, ink set into
vessels, black marks of history &
missing memories, nights spent in
dark glasses, the leather clatter of
conversations, spilt ideas, hands
resting on broken chairs, music
in some kind of distant corner,
yellow smoke & the sound of
wood cracking over the pressure
of falling, it isn’t in the air,
some small hole in the side door,
there is a sense of listening
in the honesty of grey eyes, three
day old facial hair, but when
the clock reaches for closing,
a match book, half used,
lights the last cigarette