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There is no title. There is no title. The body is content. The body is window.
The body is container, curtain, chair, grid. Do you see? Bones & shoulders, a spine 
guiding the breath I can’t force to change what is real or unreal. Is it mine? Only air 

surrounding form—

a curated perception that troubles. My mother’s death flattening against the wall. I can’t 
see my own face now—

the photograph ever now—
ever the repetition of memory—

I can’t see my own face 
as I hold myself.