To keep the fluid balance, I tip my head back
While the rest put bias on a balance beam,
On which we put our burdened coats,
Stained, pretty patterns of
Pained, petty ghosts.
With my problems large and small,
He let me see the medium
And I scraped them off the pictures,
Until I saved them on my mirror.
There they hung off-center
Like a dissatisfying tie.
I'm caught in its noose
And the residue keeps everything hazy.
I'm stumbling backwards,
I thought the blindness would save me.
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