I am not thinking about how I am myself and the world is the world when I lay down as a sack of bones.

I am not thinking about how I am separate from the universe, an organic machine with its own soul that must master it all to show its existence is worthwhile, when she asks: How has the week been? Is the shoulder better?

I am not thinking of how I can not see myself with my own eyes and yet I think I know how I look to others, as I tell her “It’s better, but not there yet” and flex to feel the knot in my back that I want undone.

She puts a hand under my chin and asks “Here?” and then goes to my ankle and says, “So here.”

She sinks the needle midway down my shin and like that a relaxation comes into my shoulder.

And I see that a rock turning round a star on the edge of galaxy turning in a universe of universes is as connected to everything as everything.

The center of everything is everywhere.

That is why my right shoulder feels better when a needle pierces my left calf.

It’s sort of insane. In a good way.

And I wonder, would I feel even better if an asteroid swung two feet to the left of the star on Orion’s hip?