Funhouse
by William Cordeiro
The person you approach now disappears.
Long hallways flatten into nothingness.
Insight warps into its outward image—
one body added to the infinite.
A vertigo of flesh: both true and false.
Walls shudder where a dust-mote shadowboxes.
A door slams shut and yet it has no depth.
Since every map proclaims that you are here,
all space (all time) loops back: you second guess
this logic seeking to evade its premise,
that darkness, too, is just a trick of light.
Each mirror looks for faces it has lost.
Inside a room another room is locked
where even emptiness must hold its breath.