Universes don’t bud out of cement
But left untended by the gardener mind, busy gardening whirlpool metropolises,
Eager little solar systems push their moons
through the cracks, up the stairs,
Reaching slippered feet on the third floor.
Universes infect you through your feet.
I live a million different universes.
One in the quench of my father’s eyes,
In the serenity of my mother’s embrace.
A house full of universes are my loves
Isolation, the taste of nickel.