So small are the worlds in which I exist.
Sometimes I even live in them.
Bedroom, front seat, cubicle, arm-chair,
kitchen, even my Nature comes bounded
by walls and fences.
Luckily, inside me, vast galaxies turn,
spinning silky reality from whimsy and
make-believe, fabricated of chewed-up,
cobbled-together bits of
my stunted actuality.
I know, the physics of this make no sense,
but I only got as far as chemistry in high school
and a bit of alchemy when I started
this nature of work and these works
of what’s become My nature.