I exhale galaxies in my sleep.
Behold my right hand:
its fingers are light years apart,
five pale towers
clothed in gulls and clouds.
On each fingertip sit many cities,
and in every city
I hold a minimum-wage job
where mini lords rant
about mini mistakes,
where money laughs at me,
and I trudge in no direction,
afraid that my anxiety shows.
Brushing my teeth,
I spit colors.
Behold my left hand: its fingers are scraped red,
ragged at the nails, ruby-knuckled in dishwater,
grasping, wandering lost through leg forests,
positioning tomatoes and throats.
In bed I ride my body like an airship over the past.
My legs cast long shadows over rotting continents,
sprawling kingdoms populated by pet ghosts,
distant memories drawing ever closer
to my thousand-sided eyes.
I float through music
and cleanse myself with storms.
Mountains shuffle aside
that I may view the sunrise,
then dismiss it.
The sight of our tiny, wind-slapped lives
fills me with pity.
I stumble from the shower
and get ready for work.