Slow Release

The recipe called for a spoon, just one,

a dark, thick dollop, for the bread.

I tipped the jar, its work begun,

then watched the column, overhead,

begin to stretch, a velvet rope,

a syrup falling, inch by slow

inch. A deliberate, liquid hope

of movement, barely on the go.

It pooled at the lip, then gave its yield

with such a deep, unwilling grace.

Time itself, a heavy field,

slowed down to match its languid pace.

It broke at last, a dark, rich plop,

leaving a long, fine, sticky thread.

Just a sweet weight, that wouldn't stop

until it settled, dense and dead.