I admit a fascination with the visceral. Underneath all the flowers and poetry, there are mechanics. Muscles, tendons, saliva, nerve endings, unpretty things that hold up the curtains of our lives' theatre. Underneath, the oil of olay and botox and implants, or the natural beauties with faces the color of Spring afternoons, stately gentlemen, or good-time charlies. Underneath. I wonder what we are reaching for, when so often it's nothing, just us.