Three short lines at the start set up a strange, compressed picture: a whole morning contains a single cell, and the entire afternoon sits inside that cell. Time keeps shrinking inward, like nesting boxes. The word "cell" can suggest a biological unit, the beginning of life, but it can also suggest a small room, so the day feels both tiny and enclosed.
Then the poem turns. "Midnight cries / bring forth a child" shifts from the quiet, boxed-in daytime to a sudden, loud arrival. Judging by the title, "Outgrowth," something has been growing slowly and unseen through the hours, and the night is when it finally emerges. The speaker doesn't say how they feel outright, but the tone seems hushed, wondering, and a little tense, as if waiting and confinement lead to a painful, startling release. The mood is intimate and strange: the ordinary passing of a day becomes something like a pregnancy, ending in birth.