Your immensity is something you keep
under lock and key because it is terrifying to you.
At night your immensity wakes you up,
banging its metal cup against the bars
of the cage where you keep it. Your immensity
wears seven-light-year boots and can cross
between stars with a single stride. Your immensity
can look at a table or a refrigerator or a window
and see each separate particle that makes it up.
Your immensity's head is the size of the rolling earth,
and its dreams boil like magma inside of a skull of rock.
From time to time an island in the Pacific erupts
and you know a terrifying clarity, terrifying because
it does not last, cannot help you in the everyday
routine where you exist without your immensity,
because you don't know what to do with it,
how to take it out in public, how to teach it
to work with you in the world
rather than turning you into a fool with glazed,
vacant eyes. So you make your immensity wait
until you're ready for it, until you're done
with the world, until you're ready
to leave behind the beloved things
that your immensity dwarfs.