it's no wonder i thought you were magic

deep within the bowels of the apparatus
a speck’s been digested:
my minuscule existence.

and my realm is small within it.

there’s barely enough real estate
in the halo
for my car
much less
a kitchen and a stove
a bedroom window with a woman
and the floor
pooling
with her nightclothes.

they blink in and out and i can’t
recover them
all at once.
i string them along like a necklace
of invisible trinkets
and hope they last through the afternoon.

what in god’s lonely name do i really have?

it’s no wonder
why i puzzle the suburbs
of crumb palaces
looking for a piece to fit an ending
and make high ceilings
out of space
to hide the height of the universe.