I Only See Halves
when I look out my glass door-
half a tree, half a cloud, half a sunset-
the missing part blocked by my head-high fence.
Most of the time, I shut the blinds,
gazing at the slivers of green, blue, orange,
but I would prefer not to, like Bartleby,
whose passivity, I once asserted,
led to the decline of his health.
Others misunderstood how to help him.
Now, I find that I have become him.
I blankly stare at halves of something,
which amounts to nothing.