Friday, April 20, 2018


As usual, there goes your
sallow face

in a dirty
shop window; not just

a reflection—the sum

of all the
things you don't know.

You'd think
that understanding

would look a little different
from its

absence—but it

You stop. For a
second, both of you

stop. This is
no stranger—not even

a vague shadow.
This is your twin;

this is your exact double.
Except—that rift

(which you feel beginning
to pulsate now

as a physical thing;

but thick,
cold and impenetrable,

like the tight knot of muscle
between your stomach

and your lungs) you sense
isn't mutual.

Some gaps
are real; certain lacks

are both
solid and unbridgeable.

You could
bring him water—but you couldn't

make him take it.
You could never

make your
right hand do

the things his
left one is doing.