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Evening arrives and never leaves.
          Lists of names
line the bar and still we are strangers

          and buy drinks
like we're family. It is someone's
          birthday.

If she said her name it was intelligibly
          exquisite. All
speech is perfectly ruined. Our tongues

          are fire
and smoking very quickly. Ashes
          line our pockets.

Glasses become hands pointing in directions
          hidden
in corners behind bodies holding up

          hallways where
one guy knifes up another as a favor.
          A bigger man,

with a smile, hits the wall every time
          girls pass.
And then one girl stops and kisses him.

          What trouble
could make you go back home? The tab?
          Being carried?

I know I had a conversation that seemed
          to mean something.
I am something. Why not leave it there?

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