late at night
the buzzing
in the head becomes
a beacon of discovery
until the boiling water
whistles again
like a referee
in the morning
when the tides rise
and then later
fall inexorably
and the wind rises
whipping old loose pages
from chapters long ago
into today’s frenzy
and you are back
again staring onto
the same dark road
that you had so
carefully avoided
but must now walk
its course of ruts and thorns
until the chemist
changes course in
the evening which he
holds up before you
on the horizon
like the sun rising
over the rim
of the holy grail