Six words, three lines, and a surprising number of questions. Garret Schuelke's untitled poem, marked only by a row of asterisks, states something so plain it almost sounds like a caption: "Our reflections / are in / the window." Nothing is said about who "we" are, where the window is, or what time of day it is. The poem gives us one image and leaves us to stand in front of it.
The most interesting word may be the smallest. Schuelke writes that the reflections are *in* the window, not *on* it. Physically, a reflection sits on a surface, but "in" suggests the glass has taken us inside itself, as if the window were a container and we were its contents. Then there is the line break. "are in" gets a line of its own, two light syllables with nothing to lean on, so the reader hangs for a moment on the word "in" before "the window" arrives to complete the thought. The poem puts its pivot in the middle of itself, which suits a poem about something that exists between two spaces.
The choice of "window" over "mirror" matters too. A mirror is made to be looked at, but a window is made to be looked through. When we notice our reflection in a window, our faces lie over whatever is behind the glass, so we appear to hover in the street, the garden or the dark. Judging by the image, the poem is about that doubleness. The window is transparent and still a barrier, showing the world and showing us at once. The word "our" adds a second layer. Whoever speaks is not alone in the glass, and the poem quietly pictures two or more people sharing one image, perhaps seeing each other there more easily than face to face.
The construction is as spare as the idea. There is no rhyme and no regular meter, only free verse tapering from four syllables to two to three. The only long word is "reflections," and it carries the poem's weight; everything else is a short, ordinary word. It also has a second meaning. "Reflections" can be thoughts as well as images, so the line can be read as saying that our thinking, too, has spilled out into the glass. That is an interpretation, but the word allows it. There is also a small sound-trick: the word "in" sits inside "window" (w-*in*-dow), so the poem's key preposition is hidden in its final noun. The line "are in" ends up containing itself.
The tone is flat and declarative, in the present tense, with a full stop at the end. Schuelke does not tell us whether the sight is comforting or eerie, which leaves room for both. The present tense matters because a reflection exists only while we stand there and the light cooperates. Step away and it is gone. The poem's brevity copies this, since it is over almost as soon as it appears.
This is why such a small text is worth reading closely. It is not a haiku, since it doesn't follow that form's syllable pattern, but it shares the same trust in a single image. It also turns its own form into a version of its subject. The white space around the three lines works like glass: the poem is mostly clear, and the reader's own thoughts show up in it. The word "our" quietly includes whoever is reading. By the last line we are no longer observing someone else's reflection but standing in front of the window ourselves, aware that the picture we see is made partly of us.
A longer poem might explain what this moment means. This one trusts that the sight of ourselves, faintly laid over the world, is enough to start a thought.