Eileen Myles, p.3


I think of you as scratched

bristles hit

zooming a train squeaks into Trenton
pair of fags viciously feeding

they don’t stop eating
everywhere women work
their butts off

tapping into the station

I thought I’d look
I’d arrive writing


yes I’d arrive writing

you arrive in the bones in my chest
no small world, no large

mastodon bones
her fingers are in her mouth
his phone to his ear
our sleepy civilization
I would say an american poet
that’s all I would
be known as


And no one holds the camera

hold & look
carry your bags

the scream, the absolute scream of his cardboard

what could be more fun
than getting killed
this absolute way

the British people never
talk when I need
they put all this fuss around their vowels
it is an island accent
the lap of language


I suppose the next one will be the american planet
planetary, that’s what I want to
be, oh my desire to live
I die to be known as living, casting
this fucking shadow
let me fall on you
be in my dark
sheer blue

so the sky is my hat.

oh sheer blue
so the sky be my hat.