I guess you were meant to iron me out, after times of intense ambition, climbing cliffs, goat’s hoofs embedded in solid rock.
Games for climbers, persevere up the steep and, I suspect, maybe I got lost in it, and this round has to be the last of that.
You must spend all of me, empty my pockets.
Imagine our tie as a promise made a while back, of bleeding it all away, and soon to come, the full transfusion. Total hema count anew.
After you scrunch me up good, wrung it all out I’ll ask —¿what then?
Let’s realize this in exhaustion and pray. A new configuration gurgles down below. On the surface my face sags, my bones hurt. Your hair thins, eyes shot.
But we are almost there.
Let this be the waiting room, as the last of another Sun year passes outside our window.
Wait it out.
And when the sky turns reddish and blotchy it is occurring, our next horizon, transfusion, our brand new blood.