No lamp-lighters come ‘round here anymore
The acetelyne filaments flicker o
As the Monk of 1958 plays in Blue Note disjunctive mindlums
The yellow fog rubs its back on windows and creeps under open windows and dark deep into lungs
Coffee steam rises soft and whispers answers to questions held in dream
The smoke smoke smoke bleeds from fingers like ink
and cards shuffle in reflections in lenses
of glass
ashes blown by breath

The world goes up in flames
sparked in dark alleys
And tobacco cut like sawdust falls from trousers rolled
Ti, Jean, Ti Jean
Your eyes
Your eyes old
Your eyes dark
Your eyes closed under lilies like Ophelia
Your water brown from bottle
Your eyes stare back at me, Ti Jean
and lay undiscovered in closed eyes next to me
Your eyes cry and spin words from gold
Ashes, ashes, sleep and ashes
And there is no answer
only wind.