today my fingernails are continents

& i wave with my eye lashes
to all the tiny people there
with their circuses & their afternoon arguments.
there is always another world
nestled inside the first. i watched
a hoard of chickadees chewing on bread
underneath a dead car whose been parked 
in the lot behind my house for weeks.
it has a yellow boot & three orange envelops.
inside the envelopes are maybe fines
but also possibly love poems.
you have to forgive me 
for writing stories onto every object.
a man once gave me a stone he found 
on the shore of maine. round, speackled, & heavy,
he said the stone reminded him of me.
i imagined myself hatching from a similar stone.
any egg could have a planet inside.
the yolk is a sweet sunrise 
learning how to bleed.  
a tiny mountain sprouts at each cuticle
& there will be humans who want to climb them.
they will invent special gear
& they will strive to perch
as close to the sun as possible.
my father once climbed on the roof of the house.
my brother & i watch
from the yard while he was made small
by distance. one alley way on my block 
is a refuge for leaves.
layers & layers. underneath the leaves 
are fragments of birds: a wing, a beak, a tail.
this where the birds go to bury themselves.
right now there are gigant humans
who peer down at us from their microscopes.
the whole galaxy whirls in front of them.
i'll call you a specimen & i can be 
a slice of science. what will we do 
if tomorrow i find myself smaller 
than the day before? my great aunt warned me
our bodies are shrinking--bones collapsing inward.
teeth are just another kind of doormat.
a whole comet passes behind my eyes.
i can feel it. i am not drawn to scale.
there were many mistakes. the trees on willis avenue 
are smaller than the rest of the world.
my mind is full of oak leaves.
spring will be here soon & every corner will swell.
there wil be no more room.
i tell the people down there 
to remain calm. that i am not in fact a giant
but really just a gentle god.
i mean them no harm. the ones who hear me
are prophets. the ones who don't
are fishermen. the lakes are dry as salt.