mason jar.

you're a jar of mescaline.
i am someone that you've seen.
in the folds of yellow pages bent to keep our places,
everything seems out of focus.
the numbers blur and swarm like locus.
you're a fucking alkaloid,
and i'm detached, with this gaping void.
there's not enough of you to satisfy me.
where do i go when i'm done?
should i crawl to the summit of the ancient mountains,
or delve through the opacity of charcoal waters?
you're a mason jar that someone set out.
they hoped for fireflies, but have you instead.
passed on from the Huichols in Mexico,
you can fucking sit and stimulate yourself in that mason jar.