just now the mixer spinning the porcelain slug
a drop swirled, swung, flung
into my eye right there nothing
I could do but stop
I can not see.
Motorcycle Diaries intended for the evening
Pulse radio playing in the background
Wax warming melting on the palette
I can not see.
There is a place we are asked to stop
maybe forced to stop.
It is up to us to choose at which juncture we listen.
I can not see.
But I can hear.