The secret of twins is that they have no secrets
But a code like the jargon of bees
Or the rushing of a creek through grasses
So what is known to one is known to the other.
Falling into step along the beach or boulevard,
Surrounded by light or shadowing each other
The twins project a harmony so perfect
That, to all of us born lonely, destined to struggle
As lovers, parents, brothers, reluctant strangers,
They are a mystery and mild reproof.
We dress them alike, angry over our own strangeness,
Envying those blessed to be born separate and one.
On the green seesaw of their delicate incarnation
The twins balance, a perfect closed parenthesis.

Daniel Mark Epstein

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 12 Number 7, on page 33
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