The Boundary

Birth after birth, the sharp pitch
of burgeoning into three dimensions;
swell off a boundary like liquid glass
to mould the bodies we must be,
minutely alter, an act of creative will,
let no flicker or blurring of edges
betray the mirage we dream up,
infinitely connected, forget you, me.

Our weaker kin who cannot form
distinct images, their projections
ghosts, low-resolution echoes
of self, we slowly digest. Like
cells in a perfectly flat honeycomb,
one entity, wax walls giving the sense
of independence, gradually eroding,
at the end we will flow into each other.

Who are we to concede the boundary,
that encoded field of light, that true
horizon? Will our flesh and bones fade,
personal effects, photographs, names
vanishing as with the twist of a dial?
There must of course be shadows.
Scattering, sunbeams off glass,
we apprehend a makeshift home.