Sitting next to you as the sun goes down
And dies a world of fire upon the lake.
A raised glass empties all the sunset
To your cheek; the table spreads horizon-wide.
And we sit as we have come, apart
By inches. Hundreds of miles of inches.
Night comes on. A few boats. Voices drift
From the water until they become music
Later, in the city, and smoke around us.
A club. And we sit next to the jazz band,
The notes of miles between us, our silent
Inches swelling to something kind of blue.
Is it water, your eyes, this empty music,
Fallen smoke and lonely between us here?

by Jason Stevens

Original bio from the Fall 2008 edition:
Jason Stevens is a retired Ghostbuster who now splits his time between pursuing a Ph.D. in literature and chronicling supernatural events in academia. Ask him about Dr. Wegemer’s projectile eye.

This poem first ran in the Fall 2008 edition of Grub Street Grackle. It appears here online for the first time.