My eyes, it seems,
have taken on a twinkle
like stars in my skull
burdened with a brightness
owing to my metabolic parabolas.

I burn to implode when I follow
these evolving arcs of fits and starts
that coil ever lower like a slinky
descending the basement stairs.

There is a rythym to the bouncing loop,
a baseline of heartbeats and hurtbeats,
a limping strum and drag across the sky.

Polaris is a liar pimping fixity's illusion
and when I was a girl I believed the truth
of due north but I have lost my magnetism,

I feel no ferrous force,
following unscrupulous directions.
I trace this path I've treaded threadbare,
the ups and the downs, stuck in a cosmic rut.