— 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