9. (MOUTHFUL OF BLOOD)

Across the bar she’s got a good look 
on me, trained like a heavy breathing bull
far into the tumult of a skinny evening.
It’s dark out.
Wearing rags— nothing too suspecting
of the malleable forty bones slashing away
at my pocket— i share heavy light
with a stranger across the room.
i think to buy a beer, novocaine,
an ambient swill good for a scarce romantic
floating overtop dingy water
in this lake, cat-tailed with bemusement.
A hand clutches my shoulder where
sustaining vulnerability is left.
Whispering the “much” i miss, a tight squeeze
suckles at a beat against a chest,
no matter the “how” volition gets there.
A whirling takes.
she steals her looks when her easy slides
in front; a promise-all to at least
saying hello.
i’m an echo reverberating against
rocks too far to make out anything.
How far must i reach?
Is this a hold that might keep bounding
foolishness from stripping for the first time?

9.