The Look by Bob Weaver

The Look,

compressed intense,

curled up into a ball of fire,

shot from a cannon,

by a dirty hat with a dirty past,

slicing through millions of covalent bonds

and heavenly crystals,

micro-miles above a faded bar stool,

clean through the vessels of a bad man’s fist,

who just missed my chin by a foot,

while I yawn and chuckle at his failure,

to prevent me from noticing her stare,

like a steamy tractor beam,

swallowing my brain and lungs,

in one giant breath,

straight out of my boots,

towards her light,

I defrost,

touch her lips,

with my sizzling skin,

and dive into her river,

forever her lover.