Come hear it
Hear the rink-rattle of the little cups
The mixing of the potions
Think of the not-thinking
Find in the night
The emptiness of contact
The strange grips of the liquid moments
Know and never understand
The conscience starts coming in the clarity
Too late to leave or stop
The captain returns to steer her ship
Anxious control through choppy waters
No stars to guide her to the opaque finish
Thoughts of a home
That may not even be the end
