THE WORLD opens
into and out of my narrow eyes:
a ballasted ball of dust.
Gray skies circle above
my head, spinning
me faster than I
spin through it,
summing my time
with age—number
upon number—even better
than my own deliberation
of my sins.
I trace the sky’s
patterns, probing for
signs of its gazillion
age. All the same though
in the morning, it is young.
At night, senescent. And
Dawn to dusk,
Dusk to dawn,
I am fraying,
and the world
is still half a stranger.
Edilyn Ruth U. Yu
