[Inspired by this article on the New Yorker web site.]

We grow,
not like trees
straining for the light,
But by finding light within ourselves,
and seeking its reflection without.

Finding none,
or merely few,
we fail to resolve
as our own person.

Shadows, darkness,
dreams with empty places:
what it feels like is bursting
without the pop.

We are adequately full
of the ordinary things;
we try on dresses
and hob nail boots,
fancy hats
and pin-striped suits;
beatings and screams and
soft heads on angled pillows:
the world conspires to shear us,
to blind us,
to make us forget:
the unfinished.

Not diamond,
not tree;
arrested child
accreting tar and dreams—
hark! A light,
distant as forgetting,
and like armor,
like kisses,
like alone together,
we grow a little more complete.

We grow,
not like anything before or after,
straining until the light
is no longer without.

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