Cerebellum

I use my cerebellum

to find the peg holes

in the wall where

we carved out plastic

constellations that radiate

across your temple

and your bedspread.

In darkness, it tells me

whether I am right side up

or vertical.

I mistake topsy turvy

for ambulatory

motions, kissing in the dust.

I am brain dead.

Breathing and digestion

maneuvers

of Eden artistry

twitching underneath the cellophane

of cells.

Understand that I have not

chosen to be viscous—

to evaporate under hot breath.

I am trying to understand science.

Hypocrisy

isn’t lost on me.

But this is why

the world moves.

Why I sit here without a

care, so I can feel how

the earth’s axis turns you

a different shade of lovely.

My cerebellum feels

it’s way through space.