by eileen myles
All the doors in my home are open.
Thereâ€™s a pulse outside I want to hear.
The phoneâ€™s unplugged.
The pastiche of you on me would be unforgivable now.
If thereâ€™s a god squirming around
she sees me & is me.
I wish the birds were souls, invisible.
I wish they were what I think they are; pure sound.