Be a tourist in your own home, 

its skeletal walls flayed of plaster flesh. 

You may wonder why each picture frame 

seems empty. No one there is familiar,

so pass among their faces as if they were silk 

curtains, luxurious but airy volumes.

It’s insignificant, and yet you can’t quite 

understand the beauty of an abandoned silo 

that incubates saplings in its hollowness. 

Where you promise but make no guarantees. 

The scene is here for you, and only you, 

and whomever else happens to drive by 

on that country road. Look at each room

from every angle. This house is no more 

than its wooden frame. 

       Now be a tourist in your own body. 

Anchor your toes—the swaying catches 

everyone off guard. Like a rental home, 

the body’s repairs are not included: 

busted pipes, faulty ankle, worn roofing, 

a rupture. Don’t let the beating stop. Be like 

my favorite gaudy porcelain clock—rewind, 

spring forward, turn back with your hands.