Self-portrait, with Migraine

Halo, they call it; as though it were
a circle floating like the aura of a saint

or a LED bulb over your head. Telescoping—
as though the walls were closing in,

lengthening like a runway for takeoff 
to a constellation that hasn't been 

discovered yet. A small tilt in 
the direction of wind, a shift 

in the floorboards. The heave and foam 
of the sea in your stomach, and you 

wash up on an island. No sails, only 
sheets. The sun is banished from this 

kingdom for now, though it knows you
still love its bronzes and buttercups.