Arms/Arms/Arms

I awake with arms sprouting from my chest,
   the backs of my shoulders,

maybe as Vishnu or Kali, maybe
   the Vitruvian man, maybe a spider.

I am trying to carry everything
   that I can know.  The glass of water

on the nightstand.  A bouquet of dead leaves.
   Every pear that fell in the orchard.

My mother and father.  The moon
   as only the window can paint it.

How many limbs are too much?
   How many loves are too much?

The arms multiply.  Another, another.
   How many more until I lift the carousel?

How many more until I become it, 
   until I am a child aboard once again?