Broken Mosaic Effort

You are behind me on my back. Over me
like a hood. As I think I feel I know you; or intimately
I feel it—more than you—like a cliche:
my own jigsawed piece; my… desperate, broken
mosaic. Or my one true glance—by chance—
out of the window on a clear day
without a paintbrush, a knowing—a poem.
Look where you’ve left me though. With no explanation.

Another artist suggested to me (though she hides
behind her chaise lounge) that this is all we are,
whatever that could mean, even though I feel it too:
you must see outside soon; I think someday you’ll know
what I deeply, arrogantly knew
about you—of you—as I am left with… bare thought
of our chance still looming: listen: I know how it feels;
I see you. But there’s something I can’t say—

Look.