In this photo the text glances at itself as if uneasily, as if it were a middle-aged man confronting himself in the mirror, rubbing at stubble, pulling skin taut and letting it spring back into wrinkles and ruin, the eyes dark tarns into which long-cherished but increasingly inaccurate images of himself might tumble. In this photo there is no clear frame of reference, nothing clear except for the frame that references what it disincludes like an N95 mask dangling from its strap off of a harassed assistant manager’s ear. In this photo the bucolics of my confinement wax and wane.