Michael A. Wells

Vertigo

There is no east or west sun.
Indifference blankets the sky
In smoky haze, leaving me

To feel my way homeward.
A thousand protrusions
Slapping my outstretched tentacles

Silly, twisting me one way,
Rotating another.
This way- that.

A blind needle
Of a compass
Bobsledding a labyrinth.