While at the bar sipping wine

I asked the bartender, “What’s on tap?”
“Endless opportunity,” He said,
as tears wore gullies
in His gorgeous face.

In that forever ago moment
around me sprung a dream box.
Mortar and brick reach up, and seem,
somewhere beyond,
to converge.

And so, feet and back tensed
against opposing walls,
up this bloody shaft I journey.
Every inch strips my skin
like bark tornadoed off a tree
as bar susurrus below and sky silence above
recede and diminish to endless nothings.

Do they exist?

Forever ago I drank one of the bartender’s tears
and tasted divine intoxication
then sobered up into
this odd bloody bitch of a box
where at times I recall a longing
for a wine I can’t quite recall.

Will I belly-up to the bar again?
Assume, as I, that it is not impossible.
What then could ever bust my barfly aura?