The first way that “I” is under pressure is that the book is written by two poets. Oscillating between voices with only small initials to indicate ownership, my eyes slip between the stanzas of one voice to the other. I’m unsure where one poem begins and the other ends and whose poem is whose. The “I” also slips through time. It dilates from a single lifetime to moments, seasons and eons. Presumably, each voice of a different age with different interests at each moment. The “I” is nomadic, moving countries and ecosystems. I cannot locate my self. I’m unfixed.