Dave Bonta's "Bellwether" is a short poem about losing your footing. A bellwether is a sheep that leads the flock, or anything that signals which way things will go, so the title sets up an expectation of guidance. The poem then takes it away.
The speaker begins with two blunt possibilities: to "age / or boil over," a slow decline or a sudden blow-up. Then comes an odd, dreamlike image of a compass "busy with the north" yet "napping in a riot." The needle seems to know its direction, but it is oddly calm, or useless, while chaos surrounds it. The last lines deliver the strangest claim: having been "rescued from the dead," the speaker knows "no certainty."
The mood is uneasy and quietly stunned. Judging by the imagery, the speaker survived something huge, and instead of feeling secure, feels unmoored. Being saved hasn't brought answers, only a lasting doubt.