History lately inflects my hardly waking, my effort at present, presence— is that a cardinal overhead or a dragon belief derived from fossil remains? Is this humid chill a Lake Nemi of houseboats, Calligulan, Diana afleet?

Instead of falling into the train for the second half of a morning sleep, where doors close and take us with them and an announcement is enough to rattle my clothes— time, news, briefly forgiving the car in which Alyssa Milano reads Anne Bradstreet.