out of childhood, grew a socket, still in its box
and wrappings, although opened often enough,
almost touched when people were caught looking
at the ribbon, not so much as yellow as when the
hollow first grew from hearing there were other
things made of glass, already grown, fixed into
place in less time than it took the socket to begin
to think of form, once it knew it was forming, this
was a time of practice and prods, of great
discovery, covering and design, it developed for
itself a sealed place, a mud hut covered in tissue, a
wrapper for those who noticed it, so they could
then take out a pen, write their good wishes on the
clear space, a get well, a see you soon, or a
thinking of you to whatever was inside, crowds of
children at first, and then their parents, sitters, or
doctors, drawn by the yellow, so attentive to the
way the sunlight hit it, all waited around to truly
disbelieve
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