The light was still ours.
It leaked from your eyes
And your smudged hand
Remains forever poised over
Night is never ending
In that, we can agree.
What little sun there is, warms
Ancient stone structures with faint
But perhaps it is the
Silent moon we see, and with which
The fishermen work the nets on the harbor.
The pungent odor of oil, sweat,
Men curse the stubborn night.
The frozen air. Water lapping at the pylons.
They cannot swim.
They will die here.
The smoker sits by the window
And has his portrait painted.
Swirls of Indigo surround burning ember.
Street light refracted through silty glass.
The toxic fruit smell of turpentine.
Ash inch-thick on faded
A layer of ash on everything.
The smoker pays us no mind.
He gazes out at the ancient
Was the nation’s
more by SERGIO REMON ALVAREZ
photograph by Chris Myers
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