At the equinox
the advertised balance
falls short:
my egg sweats,
cannot become its axis,
teeters off its pole.
Not the time
for a man’s ki to go
on the blink
—or his internet either—
but there it sputters.

Still, when markets
recover and
one old house
is traded
for the next one,
I will miss
this threshold most,
as I will dreaming
and superfluous
repentance.

No one is asking
me to eat
unseasoned lentils;
even to a soul
at hazard, no one
would presume.
My room is overrun
with gray noise;
the floor fan oscillates
in sync with
my hippocampus;
leaves wither;
nothing recurs;
it’s not so full of stars.