the descriptive injury

someone asked her what she was looking at
as she stood in front of the large picture window in the kitchen
in the abode where she presently resided---
the question came aloud from another room,
as if the questioner was busy themselves & only in passing
did they see the girl standing
with eyes focused,
arms at her sides,
as if in a private state of wonder
(& why a private state of wonder seems to be ample food for the
popular & public, pedantically preposterous, who prey upon the
rest of us---we’ll never know) &
so without hesitation they rambled out their comment,
not sticking around a moment for an answer &
as if that itself was not an answer to such a question,
the girl standing in front of the window
neglected to say anything, instead,
taking an extra moment to enjoy what it was that she
had been privately concerned with,
whatever images appeared out there
that her own sense of sensory perception
was devouring, free of the babble
swirling all around,
incessantly---

it would have been an injury to them both
to attempt a description,
to bring what it was that compelled the girl to silence
(if she had not chose silence beforehand---one outside can never be sure)
to formulate an image, to dispel some kind of physical qualities verbally
which to the person outside
might have made some impression upon them,
because that unique allurement of which the girl did focus
could never truly be brought into any kind of distinction for the rest of us,
in fact to try would only taint it & do a disservice to the whole of the
event---
rather, even a more considerate onlooker, who stopped when crossing into the other room, in order to ask the girl about her moment in awe,
would only force a quick death to what was happening,
like waking up from a dream involving the two,
neither can make the other understand
anything but the attempt at understanding,
for what is to be understood
exists solely on its own---right out there in the focus,
or it lies dead in our savage
description---

and when the questioner came back after a few minutes,
unsatisfied with the absence of any answer
(as so many of us impatient imbeciles are),
after turning, the girl spoke a few phrases
which to the questioner seemed only nonsense at best,
as if she’d been spoken to in a language that she didn’t know---
what had been said was simply a description also,
one that felt only like another installment,
a domino in the falling, predictable effect,
wherein one person tries to get at the heart of the matter,
while the other tries to help them &
a million conversations begin, part ways &
begin again,
constantly picking up the baton & then dropping it,
be it like the boredom of rereading a “choose your own adventure” book,
or a fresh new mistake
found when the collision of the selves within
mess up the overall stability of the
whole.