Few poems brag and back down within five lines, but this one does it with a straight face. "It's the same where I am / when I'm anyway always here / so I'm amazing." The logic is delightfully broken. Being the same and being always in one place is offered as proof of amazingness, as if the speaker had simply noticed it and drawn the nearest conclusion. Then comes the correction: "but you all are still more amazing." The boast and the humility sit side by side, and neither cancels the other. The result sounds like a person thinking aloud, honest enough to be funny.
The reason given for others' superiority is the strangest detail: "you all who can see through two eyes / at the same time." Most of us never think of two-eyed vision as an achievement, so the line makes an ordinary gift look like a marvel. It also invites a guess that the speaker sees differently, or feels cut off from how other people see. That is an inference, and the poem never confirms it. What the text does show is a speaker who looks at everyday abilities from outside and finds them astonishing. "You all" widens the address to a whole crowd, and the speaker stands slightly apart from it, but without bitterness.
The second movement turns to the speaker's own mind, through a metaphor defined by what it is not: "My head is no kind of / wonderful radio / receiving farflung messages." A radio would mean contact with distant places and a head that picks up the world. The speaker denies that, and denies the reverse too: "it can't even send any either." The word "either" has a shrugging, conversational tone, and the line breaks add to it. "No kind of" hangs at the end of its line before "wonderful radio" arrives, as if the speaker were hunting for the right comparison and settling for a modest one. What replaces communication is not emptiness, though. "Just I'm happy / inside a crazy great light." The odd word order, "just I'm happy" instead of "I'm just happy," makes the happiness sound blurted out. "Inside" matters as well, because the light is a place the speaker lives in, not something received from outside.
Formally, the poem is free verse with no rhyme and almost no punctuation. There is one full stop, after "at the same time," and even the last line goes unmarked. Its four stanzas shrink from six lines to three, three and two, so the poem seems to condense as it goes. After the opening, the stanzas begin in lowercase ("it can't," "and when"), which makes the thought run on across the white space. The sound patterns are quiet: "here" echoes "where," and the repeated "amazing" turns from a boast into a gesture of respect on its second appearance. The rhythm is that of speech, with short, plain words in unfussy sequence, and the one burst of extravagance, "crazy great light," sounds all the bigger for it.
The ending gives the poem its twist. "And when it starts to get tiring / flying houses and people grow out of me." The "it" is ambiguous: it could be the light, the happiness, or the head itself. Tiredness doesn't end the inner brightness. It triggers a kind of production. The verb "grow" makes imagination organic, like leaves or hair, something the speaker doesn't build but undergoes. The phrase "flying houses and people" is also ambiguous, since the people may be flying too. Either way, solid, settled things like houses lose their weight in the speaker's mind, and the dreamlike picture follows naturally from the speaker's earlier stillness. The speaker who is "always here" produces a world that moves.
What makes the poem worth reading is how much it does with so little. It presents a mind that doesn't receive the world and doesn't transmit to it, yet is neither lonely nor dull. It is happy, lit from within, and fertile. The poem asks, gently, whether wonder has to come from connection, or whether a person can be both amazed by others and quietly amazing, producing flying houses out of sheer tiredness.