By the Bar

A hill of ash clouds the bar,
grey and bald of fire expired
as in line for a bank teller
waiting, car parked, to retire.

There's no job, and wife
won't stop about it.
The glass hollows--it's life!
--and wets the smoldering pit.

Under the stool here, listen,
before the tables to him talk,
his sight the world leadens
and the world no longer shocks:

"Cute baby girls through the door
to men holding the silver moon,
who grab them to the dance floor
and drift in timeless tune.

Even my jaded eye's less jaded
in seeing meaning move here
to tease my form. But, I'm faded
with rolling ongoing years.

That couple!--He makes a sign
he's even completely unaware
but she by it knows: 'he's mine,
forever. It's in his stare.'

His eye's inside hers,
he won't one moment dare shut.
They'll bleed when blood poors
all down her bleeding heart.

And which would I become
for meaning's manifestation;
the girl or the guy would I roam
if for one transmigration?

I'd put my shadow in that girl
--under the exception
I'd return in here after the whirl
avoiding her long severe reflection.




[And who would I become
if for one transmigration;
In whose form would I roam
a meaning manifestation?]
Form