The rain is bankrupt today. No holies splash on my face.
No tidepools of epiphanies make rip and row
inside my state. I loosen the ties on my robe, the squeeze
too much to bear.

Yet the day is still fair. No elopements of mood, no tiredness
that cannot be wrested and told to stand in a corner;
the bad child of me is handled. I mop the floors and prepare
a dinner of eggs and potatoes, basil pesto and walnuts.
I am fair.

Nothing is more profound about sickness than its tediousness.
Navigating around the self’s form, performing
an optical illusion on the psyche. Mussed hair

and stiff muscles, Cassiopeia clings, a small graph
of my worries in the sky, and the stars act out my daily play
of hanging off the end of the world. I never fall.