Wrist Deep

When the ceiling starts raining down
like the high hidden roof beams have melted
because the bathroom upstairs has flooded;

when cracks start crawling up the walls
like faults shifting in the ground,
when you’re shaken into awareness of what

you’ve become, detritus in the corner,
a space between space; a lie covering
another lie; when every room seems too small

spread your arms out wide and sigh.
The galaxy spins on like a plate on a stick
balanced at the bottom of a dark empty ocean.