Why (and Not)

It’s not food
until somebody eats it—
it’s not you
until someone sees you,
          mirrors you,
brings you
back to yourself,
cracks you open
and crumbles
at your touch.
                    So much
centers on a trembling,
tumbling, melting—
magnanimous and muddled;
molds you, folds you up
and covers you, counters
and then comes for you,
at you, on you, to you—
true and two who, total, 
finally hold 
                and are whole.

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