Midway down the glass-colored liquid. Now as always,
in the same place. The fingers move from the base
to the rim, to offer it over the broken-topped
table. To begin to speak. To try and say something.
This is the lounge of the newest martyrs. This is
the style which veils disorder and the hejira from
one’s own center. Courage in the face of what isn’t
there. Or what is there, in the frightened breathing
of the lounge walls.