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

There’s a diligence to having a body I might not ever master: / my face is always slipping off my face.

sweating the heat, lagged on a sagging couch, / springs broken and collapsed, the curtains drawn, / and saw receding from my distant childhood / an old film I'd loved from fifty years ago, / The Strawberry Blonde