that understanding
would look different
than bewilderment—at least
from the outside,
but the truth is
but it doesn't.
The truth is, it looks
exactly like you:
stopping short,
gobsmacked
in front of a shop window
at the sight of
not the twin—not even
the shadow—
but the stranger
who's depicted there,
thick, cold, and
impenetrable.
It looks like you losing
and gaining
sight of the facts
that a gap
can take up space
and mass—
that some reticence is
plainly visible—
that certain lacks
feel solid, vast,
and, though slight, still
quite unbridgeable.
