I’m off in sixteen different directions
like a rhumb line, like the morphometrics
in a butterfly’s decorative eye.
Something’s not right, I write,
which helps me, if not it.
Symptoms are our goad and guide.
This morning, last night:
two different orders of dirty looks.
Others may have experience of God:
interpretations, imaginings are what I know—
a crescent moon’s hammock
slung low between two palms.
To be absorbed in a trance
even of avoidance, I play Solitaire:
game of wordless patience.