Fixed Point

The paper on the table crinkles under my thighs,

a loud, clinical dry heave.

The nurse is looking for a needle that won't hurt,

leaving me to the hum of the ballast.

I'm thirty-five and still looking for the constellation.

The tiny, irregular black pits in the tile

are a star map for people who aren't going anywhere.

One dot for the flu, one for the broken wrist,

all of them connected by the dust.

Dr. Miller had the same sky in ninety-four.

It hasn't moved an inch.

The universe is smaller than they told us,

and it’s mostly made of drop-ceiling foam

staring back while you wait for the sting.