A young veteran who has lost both legs sits in a wheelchair by a pond, still new to steering it. The poem watches him watch the world: a sycamore in sunlight, its trunk continuing down into the water, where shadow and reflection drift apart. Nothing dramatic happens. A carp moves beneath the image of the bark, ducks gather, and light bounces off his shirt.
The speaker never states a feeling, and that restraint is the point. The tone is calm, observant, and tender, with no pity pushed on us. Details of doubleness, like the tree and its reflection, quietly hint at the man's own divided state, whole and not whole. Then the ending lands hard. He sets the breadcrumbs "where a lap / used to be, in that abyss." The word "abyss" finally names the absence, yet he simply goes on feeding the ducks. The mood is gentle, still, and quietly heartbreaking.