This forest of makeshift twins.

Patterns that won’t snap back together.

Pale kites trailing everything.

Could be cataracts, but the man says phoria,

meaning eye muscles ailing,

and I ask, as in euphoria?

His two heads laugh.

I’d shake his hand, but which

is flesh and which is a guess?

I had never thought about

the benefit of not being able to see

my mouth as I eat.

Oh look—extra cash.

Should I double down on the chance

that this four-legged beast is me?

It would be a thrill

if it weren’t simply cleavage—

this twin bill sunset.

And at night,

all the damned stars.