Nine short lines, no punctuation, and nearly all of them lean on one verb: *see*. In "From dusk to dawn", credited to lost and found, the speaker keeps telling us what they notice. Only at the very end do they admit that noticing may not be the same as understanding.
The first image is the strangest. "I see tears / running down / your wrists." Tears belong on cheeks, so the wrists make us stop. One reading is that the person has their face buried in their hands and the tears are running down their forearms. Another is that the line hints at something darker, a person hurting themselves. The poem never says which, and that restraint is a kind of tact. The speaker describes what is visible and doesn't pretend to diagnose it. The line breaks add to the effect. The sentence is split after "down" and again before "wrists," so it trickles across three lines the way the tears do.
Then the poem turns to trees: "I see trees standing tall / Just to fall." On the page, "tears" and "trees" are almost twins. They share most of their letters and the same slim, falling shape, so the eye links them before the mind does. The trees work as a picture of someone who looks upright and strong while heading toward collapse. The word "just" carries a lot of weight, because it makes all that effort at standing tall seem pointless. The sound reinforces this. "Tall" and "fall" are the poem's only true rhyme, and it lands like a drop. Line four is the longest in the poem, stretched upward on "standing tall." Line five is only three syllables, and the poem falls with the tree.
The title adds a frame. "From dusk to dawn" covers the whole span of darkness, so the poem seems to sit entirely at night, in a long vigil with no relief. It may be only a coincidence, but the name lost and found also pairs opposites in the same way. Both the title and the name stretch between two extremes, as the poem does between standing and falling.
The ending is where the poem becomes unusual. "But that's what / I see / you not / what you see." The grammar breaks down here, and it can be read in two ways. One reading is "I see *you*, not what *you* see": the speaker looks at the person from outside and cannot look through their eyes. The other is a more modest confession that this is only the speaker's version of events, and the sufferer may see something quite different. Either way, "you not" is a clipped, unfinished phrase, and its incompleteness is the point. The speaker can't finish the sentence in a way that claims to know the other person's mind.
Look at what happens to the pronouns. The poem begins with "I see" three times. Only in the last line does "you" become the one who sees. The speaker hands the verb over to the other person and steps back, which is a small act of humility. The shrinking lines help: "But that's what" is cut off, then "I see" stands alone, then "you not." The speaker seems to lose confidence with each line.
There is no regular metre and no consistent rhyme, just short lines whose shape follows the feeling, so the poem reads like thought rather than performance. The capitals on "Just" and "But" mark the two turns, first from tears to trees and then from description to doubt.
What makes the poem worth reading is its honesty about the limits of empathy. Poems about another person's sadness often end with comfort or a confident insight. This one stops at the edge of the other person's mind and admits it cannot see in. It suggests that caring about someone starts with noticing their pain, but it can't be completed by noticing alone, because the person's own view stays out of reach. In nine lines, the poem makes the reader feel the gap between two people, and the closing "what you see" leaves it open, as if waiting for an answer.