Night-Writing

Tonight, the bar attendant stands idle;
The intimate, wooden space is quiet.
No loneliness occupies these seats.

The last time, I was watching a window
That framed the night. Two women left their
Stifled dialogues under the counter, went outside,

Stood in it. One turned her back,
Looked away. Her companion became
A frenzy of gestures, words, torment.

In the corner, a few feet from me,
A man put his hand up a girl’s skirt,
Her spreading bones green in the

EXIT sign. He lifted her with urgency,
Buried his face in the white, ample chest.
Her head was thrown to one side, her throat full.

Darkness has long swallowed up my
Straggly verses. I have finished my beer;
Around me: low, cold echoes of emptiness.

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