Perhaps the only thing between us,
it persists, widens, old, cold, thick, greenish forest,
your eyes, which seem to see through everything
like it is summer mist and not a wall
built by clumsy, careful hands,
built clumsily, carefully by my hands,
your eyes, like they are the only pair
made for seeing me, my hands,
which long to reach through everything
like branches reach through overcast
to claim tangrams of sky, your eyes,
which seem to see in mine the longing
of my...