There was a time
in the not so distant past,
where I didn’t much bother with
whether or not
the bubble was centered.
I figured if it looked level,
it must be level.
I had convinced myself
that I could cleave myself
from the sins of the world by sight,
or by sound, or by avoidance.
I had convinced  myself that I was
the only arbiter and the only impetus
in moving my skin.