I have figured out all but you,
you, with your opaque eyes,
eyes that look blind to me;
others I am sure I understand,
understand and ignore,
ignore in my efforts to find you;
but your center is hidden,
hidden and (I suspect) mined,
mind emptied to raise and repair your edges.

There is surely much to be seen,
scenes through a glass transforming,
transforming the subject but never the frame:

window or mirror, I cannot see you.