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On Symmetry

Air has no twin: along the sill a film forms,

the window warps: a world translated twice

in glass, a world translated twice, then gone

when the pane clouds over. Without its replica

a thing flails, but adjusts to disparity:

in utero, the vanishing twin vanishing

into clear currency, an ocean swallowed by a sea

and in a blink, the coeval self reimagined

as simply self. When pain clouds the eye,

you see disruption not in a mirror

but as a word—a crab inscription,

a walking between saw and was.