I was not one of them. But I watched the users use.
Chantelle used only when she waitressed, part of her
self by the ice machine, smoking a cigarette,
while another part was bending over a stranger,
flattening a tablecloth, setting down a plate of
bronzed veal. Charlie the bartender drank no alcohol. He used
through the eye, and at forty the eye was terrible.
It is a city I remember only at night. I kept waking
up while the chefs chopped fish bodies into neat,
unnaturally square portions. And the kitchen smell
of yesterday’s mashed food, sprayed clean from the sinks.
The ghost in the walk-in, telling me he’s cold.
Charlie the bartender, already there when I arrived.
I watched him touch the needle to his blinking face.
He’d brace the eye with two fingers: a jeweler’s glass.
Nothing was itself alone. In this way, it all grew larger.