Here's a new poem that I'm still kind of feeling out...

Tincture of an event, with

some sense of determination and exploration and how does one begin to approach an end to something when his/her only compass is a feeling of lightness sometimes at the base of the skull? Copious note-taking, enlarged hypothalamuses, a history of mythography in the west—none of these things will act as the thing itself that is soon ending. The tincture should only be so sweet and should not be expected to help