Poem appeared in California Quarterly
Each of us has become private, and no longer shares the common thought of the “world soul,” except at a subliminal level. Thus our real life and purpose are conducted below the threshold of consciousness.
Philip K. Dick
Just so, waking up
like a green plant lifting from sod
I am my own chromosomal pathways,
my own scatter of associations, my own
leafmold alleyways of understandings,
I am old and new, still growing,
a burning inside me,
an inch a day, containing
this imperfectly elaborating feeling,
a decidedly uncurling thing.