Balancing on a Vector

meredith moore

Standing on the edge of a spinning top

You are confined to one color;

As your stomach hits your throat

all you see is yellow;

World accelerating after you;

world fast forwarding ahead of your eyes,

feet stuck, toes curled—

there’s nothing to hold onto.

Nothing is graspable,

neither real nor fantastical,

Instead all is blurry montage,

Because from a bird’s eye,

the top that was once red, gold, periwinkle,

when spinning,

is a sickening rainbow— then musty brown.