Magnets

i think that when i finish, i can head
out to a friend's place for dinner.
but not before i take what i have made
and purify it again, again, one more time.

you can never get it pure enough.

only thirty milligrams, anyway.
a thick yellow oil, barely a drop, like
a drop of olive oil, no longer virgin, sullied
by expectations and maybe too much hope

sometimes, by luck or the deep
pressure of my desperation, it will
come out of the sift already a powder,
ivory scratches that don't obey the rules

of crystallization, like strands of hair
thrown into a cauldron, waiting for magic,
for trouble, but mostly for dinner. i dissolve
the strands back into a liquid, get ready

to pour it into a slender tube, an extension
of my finger that i am careful not to break.
in there, everything becomes a magnet,
pulling to it more and more exacting

changes in the field of vision, of excitation,
each proton feeling the burden of being told,
don't fuck up. my burden, often. i don't wait
around to see if i've failed. i head out.