New Years Day

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NEW YEARS DAY


Another year of dancing on the edge

of death and language

for what I know. What dancers know

is to train their gaze after every

turn to a fixed point as they pirouette.

It staves off dizziness, the way 

I find the ceiling fan when I wake in a sweat, 

wondering where I am. It’s 

a slow turn, this world, but quick enough

for the untrained. My balance is off, 

and everything is starting to spin. 

Maybe this year—who knows?—I’ll fall in

and find what I’m looking for, 

the word fixed 

at the center.  


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