Growing

Growing

And now, the recesses of my life hurry forward
as if they were moving in more distended canals
(my arms better for holding than for picking up broken pieces)
Vague things are becoming more promimate to me
and all facsimiles are more carefully looked upon
The shame of childhood
Those familiar phobias of devoir
no longer does my joy only struggle outward, but I am receiving it back
and I find myself placing silent consonants within promises
that I wouldn't have dared pronouce before, or even recognize
I am growing beyond my being (into yours)

I feel more comfortable with that which is bearding, undistinguished
(trusting you)
and with my laughter, as with a child
I look up into a stairway which leads to celestial spaces
and wonder if I am becoming
the interval which places meaning and longing inside them,
or am I the falcon flying across the screen of eternity, all the same

I am gliding into our forever