I found this earlier this evening:
That point near the horizon
where the sun sits not so bright
and the ground turns to sand.
the spot of impatience, of darting eye
and furtive hands, of acidic heart skip
and the slow inhale against the coming dark.
Laptop Russian smokes with control, and the man
in pigtails is pacing
in want of seat and company.
And the eternal Her sits Eris,
in poems of unannounced grace
and untenable magnanimity.
and Spanish sits shotgun.
Twirling in his seat
with half-heard strains of conversation and the
click of a zippo,
which once belonged to the builder of lost things
which once belonged to the architect who only sees in stone
which once flowed like the properties of higher mathematics
in the 2nd dimensional concept of space
and furniture at bars. The permanence
and the awkward glance
the fleeting notion of something left behind.
Drunk and screaming, stumbling out into that concept
of unbeknown faith in the kingdom of wrinkled faces
the face of the saint, reflected, from a point off the horizon
where ground turns to sand.