Galileo of the Upper Earth

The sun to your right is truer than that in the east.  
Magnitudes construed of pomp to the resting cerulean —  
to the right and gleaming in the navel  
the bright star that considers each one's earth  
in the expanding volley of islands stacked in the urban air.  

Giving up astronomy hours ago,  
the minutes of our truths come near.  
The sun rises to the right  
and your shovel waves from the east.  
 
A pebble that subdues the mountain as it sits,  
the broader human phases out of the wooden room  
to the new-found lands.  
The sails around the helium fuse of the neuronal eyes  
shake bodies in delusional selves,  
or the truer ones — unanchored from the real capitol of money's land.  
 
The way the sky perches loftily on the scraper,  
this cannot be.  
Galileo of Upper Earth  
is beckoned more by the floor underneath,  
and people are much more interesting.  
That is why the Earth pocketed itself  
away from the Goldilocks zone  
and into its own core, dripping over,  
 
preserving each person minute resistance.  
The harbinger of heat and light buckles the manual drive.  
Every sun rises on the right, you see,  
in your own callused hand  
where the fast breaks to feast  
in each mind's Truer East.