Isthmus earth, our only unmade home,
Afloat between a circling sea of faith
And an unrevealing, energetic cold;
A stage that is a balcony as well.
A window silvered over, obscurely revealing
Us looking out upon ourselves
Or into the outer other that’s our own,
Self-estranged in our imprisoning identity.
Trapped in a comedy that escapes in sighs,
A punchline attired in glossy explanations;
Wielding the crook and the stagehand’s broom
And brandishing our bells at broken mirrors,
We’re subject to themes we would be the masters of,
The puppeteer and the sequined, grinning glove.