Seen

In your field of vision, there is a place where no image is fixed.
It is a place where injury carved its cave of nothing,
gathered blackness around a splinter’s wooden slip.
One eye, you say, looks inward
while the other scans the world. One eye
examines the self’s invisible wanting.
In that equation, I believe myself to be
a point connecting one place to another,
somewhere you paused to draw lines to the next warm station.
I emit no light, no heat
but gather, in cupped hands, what fell to the ground
when limbs were shaken by your copper wind.