Nothing living doesn’t grow –
although sometimes in certain beings
it would seem the aim of growth is to maintain
at all costs the complete appearance
of the first small unity that through
the arcane mysteries of replicating cells
it could attain: the embryo – potential kept
right at the brink of its development
but held back held back held back
from expanding: a floor of being, nothing more;
like fish eggs disallowed the sea. He was
such a being: all his energy poured involutedly
into a repetition of its own constricted form
to keep it gleaming, wet and seeming,
always seeming new – a semblance
of a promise. Inside the soul stayed hidden
somewhere as if drugged asleep. Slick surfaces
sealed in a blunt undifferentiated deep.
It’s true, he could walk to and fro.
He wasn’t fun to talk to, though.