She sees the shape before the surface,
not the horse, but the absence
it leaves in the field.

Not the hand,
but the imprint it refused to make.
The warmth of unspoken citation.

She sees across the grain:
a boy writing himself into a stanza
not meant for him.

A mirror scoured by other faces.
A window with no outside.
Glosses on a kiss that never lands.

This is what’s left:
a pronoun borrowed too long.
A touch indexed.
An ache that footnotes the body
but won’t name its source.

She sees all the way through.
That’s the punishment.