In Praise of Vertigo

Once I'm scraped from the floor,seasickness pills lodged under tongue,I lie on the bed, watch the antique dressercartwheel, John Maxon's landscape of the seashore—a centrifuge of color, origin storybreaks across the troweled walls like waves.Known is the intricate science of my inner ear: otoconia,hexagonal crystals gone rogue in the vestibularlabyrinth. I stagger ten feet to the bathroom,avoid the dog who's worry-glued to my tilt.In the mirror, I have no color, no shape—I'm a myth of matter juggled through space.How can I not praise this momentous arcing?Celebrate the brilliance of atoms churning?I'm no dervish, but in the catechism of revolution,I relish not just one round earth beneathmy feet, but a universe of many. At some point,this will end, but until then, how grand to have the clothripped from beneath the bone china of my body,to discover amidst dizziness that my platesremain unquestionably intactand arranged perfectly on the table.