My world’s abraded,
Worn thin, roughly patched.
I’m often unsure what
I do; and, when I stand,
The ground bends and slides
Like a slow-motion
Tilt-a-Whirl
At a country fair.
To find a balance,
I write into the tatters,
To the frayed coherences,
Desperately spinning
New tales to old
As a balm against the cold.
(January 22, 2018)
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