So, this time I have an actual excuse for not posting in a few days. Saturday evening at yoga class, probably as a combination of heat/dehydration/eating beforehand/who knows, I had a dizzy spell like nobody’s business. And instead of excusing myself like I ought to have, I (pretty stupidly) finished the second half, which meant that by the end I was as vertiginous as a centrifuge. (Lying on the mat at the end of class was like being in a Gravitron.) I managed to stagger out of the room after class had ended, somehow get home, and proceeded to lie on my bed and not move for hours. (The Fellow arrived in the middle of all this, which I felt pretty awful about.)
Sunday I felt well enough to get up and walk around at least, though I spent the day light-headed. And now it’s passed (though I felt light-headed this morning, too; I’m going to chalk that up to very little sleep and coffee, though), but the last thing my brain felt like doing was the poetic rounds, unfortunately. I’m going to assume that it was something to do with a rush of blood to the head fucking up the inner ear balance business, and if it happens again, I will get me to a doctor posthaste.
Not to be morbid with the follow-up, but We Write Poems asked for an epitaph this week. I wrote one not too long ago, but why not another?
Where You’ll Find Me:
In stained glass under the vandal’s feet;
in orbital clouds in the dumbstruck west.
The slow glyph of wind on a Monday street;
the paint on the waking peacock’s breast.
Waiting on the roof for summer sleet;
watching the moon rise, unbidden, unblessed.