![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglTd6p2oUQs9Hsb5nnX12GSZJZWsTBsKJa5BQRSwXsseCgjd6EkVwZqSugNssYsMfUCKM7IQhssicAh2OJpSn4VLhpTMGjTvb92sWIfrkCdFQe-gUriVgXqvTxR8ws3c5WpPNtDQ_ZKWrT/s320/shot_1314840394542-1.jpg)
Lenses, table-top pots
Stop instants.
Senses trimmed in retorts
Decant, tease
An essence out of light,
A cosmos out of night.
You'd think a
Mind that spans
All time would
Not change suddenly,
Impose what
Could be upon what
Was but sometimes that's
All it does.