The Glass

cannot be called
my own, as this is
our dog, your sweater;
the dog becomes what
we make of her
and talks our language;
the empty sweater
retains you
even picks up on
the dog, but the glass
gives its own shape
for the moment only
to what's inside.

I can see past it,
it has so many views
that it presents
what you will
at any given time,
and says nothing of us:
there is only what enters
us, the interior flow,
accommodating to the usual
channels, the glass
itself a brittle conveyance
of a restless abstraction,
and then it is put away;
it is not of me, not of you,
when you are away
it is an empty ocean
across which your voice
wavers, cracks, shatters