And so I find myself stuck in the wrong century / like Peale, probing swampland for bones, / reassembling skeletons and stepping inside.

I am thinking of you, and the bees are drowning / in the pool. The whole surface is a ballroom, // the tiny pieces move and coruscate and the air / is sticky with humming...

the song is blue and huge / it has never touched soil // the song is not saying / please come home / in a way that is so beautiful / it becomes shameless

You can mythologise anywhere but you cannot / romanticise it, / or anyone. You hear the song. You know this: / the girl is Moira, / not Lolita and it's a scrappy rowan at best / not a lemon tree.