Almost

In a red sandstone maze,
strewn with litter
and half-remembered vows,

a sliver of jazz
drifts on the edge
of midnight.

Across a band of
smoke-filled light,
tiny moths weave
their intricacies
into early autumn air.

And, as I walk past
a sadness of empty tables
scattered on the walkway,
I look for ghosts among
the newly-dead conversations
which echo down
the yellowing darkness.

Somewhere a cock crows

and every movement,
every person,
is almost you
until they become strangers.