Left the Centrifuge at Home

i wake up in the archaeological remains
of me. Sun spinning through the sky; watch it ark
in space, spy through my looking glass heart;
see the world my way. Pick up
the glass plates on the microscope and cut yourself on
the shards of what i did, what i failed
to do. Take the grains of flesh
and mind, dissolve in salt water, spin at a distance
to locate the time and the place, the lightyears
of distance to stars burning through my lenses,
my hope. The sun's zenith above becomes
the veins in my chest, the arteries of blood,
memory, and thoughts thought long before. Ancient
languages run like fibers through my being. I
touch the grass but it's barely there; break it down,
tear it apart to find the evidence that we were here
before, that what we do matters. Cut up the world
to find myself standing, stars-collapsed in my lungs,
breathing the sweat-drenched death of hope
until I start again, shudder, and walk forward.