As you enter, receive a bow, an Asian custom, my hands praying you in
from where you were to where you are. Assume a greenhouse intention
in the wall’s pistachio pigment. Your first step is liminal, watched over by masks.
The Carnival sun, once danced in Rio and moon face-molded along Florence’s Arno. Daylight’s yang, night’s yin will cradle the twoness inside us and around us.

Egos rant and whine
about what lately or
from birth, amps up
the voices—sad, glad,
silly, embarrassed—
that speak like theater-
in-the-round inside us.
We witness our mob
enclosing us—iron-maiden
spikes of chance perhaps.
Sun’s shimmering focus,
Moon’s glinting—in tears,
aha’s, dreams raising hair
on necks, arms. A pentimento
of what-I-really-feel appears
under what-I-thought-I-felt.
The double thread of our lives
renders absolutes obsolete.