Or some other work that fulfills you

For wholeness, I only want to see
what's really not there when you
turn to gel down your hair in the
mirror, cow-licking to intensity
those wide, brash eyes and that
querulous stare that seems to say,
look at me! look at me and relive
the pain of knowing you were once
a tree, a lush garden shady spot in
the bowels of the city, avec some
inner-knowing, far-reaching familiar
rootless limbs and leaves.