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)