Poem for Display in a Hospital Waiting Room

The doors swing both ways; be careful. From either side, the other looks like out. This mystery your body is like a Klein bottle, all surface, no way in. From the inevitably flawed models, it appears to intersect itself: it dwells within the without. That’s why the wind — or is it breath? — can’t be held, & you need a fourth dimension to lose those edges called sickness, to become whole.