that understanding
would look different
than bewilderment—
at least
from the outside—
but the truth is
that 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 fact
that a gap
can take up space
and mass—
that some level
of reticence
is always plainly visible—
that certain lacks
can feel solid—
almost vast—
and even when
they're slight,
you still
might find them
quite unbridgeable.
