There are too many stars in the sky,
twisted into an interstellar
spray of belts & astrology. She sits on a plank made of cedar
bobbing in the flushing ocean, has dreams
of dripping butter
art museums with tremendous mountains capped
with the tears of Zeus, Jupiter’s tantrums,
medicine made with dust & lies. Mommy, Papa, she doesn’t understand how you do it, but oh, she’s impressed, she sees things
that aren’t there, sails billowing with the mighty jaws of Venus,
vines blow wind to Sailors, Zephyrus blows kisses to sirens, sirens born in places they don’t
recognize but they understand –
their bones are made of granite & aspen
& they will be polished, suspended over the sea where her freckles are actually just the froth
& spit of the evanescent waves,
or that she learned it all because she needed
something to be good at. With every inhale
she thinks a little bit more, another cloud
turns to mist, a firetruck sets fire to the street, cries
because it’s slipping on the rain-soaked pavement, laughing until all breath escapes their lungs
(& the helplessness drives them to drain the oxygen from airbags in the front of the truck) 
& her rock is far enough that the planets have to squint to see her, but it’s okay because she owns a massive telescope
& it spills into her lap the loops of constellations; it’s a lot colder than she thinks but she thinks she’s the sun so everything just seems to be burning, burning, burning.