March 3 by Eileen Myles

March 3

The quick

exchange

of emails

between

the former

lovers creates

a soft hole

in the day

and the

night

before. It snowed

but it was

supposed

to be larger &

everything’s

closed the streets

are wet

I hear and I

won’t

step into

them.

 

One poem

for today

but no

many little

ones. The coffee

slightly

altered

is good

my bare

feet in

bed ready

to work.

I work

in the field

of dreams

where I

have met

you many

times. I feel

closer, to

you this

morning

and probably

last night

when the

doorway

slightly

opened

because

of our

notes

was flooded

with ghosts.

 

When I was

young

I liked the

emptiness

of my

home &

now like

it or not

here is

this sweet

accumulation.

 

The cameras

all that

everything

I do can’t

touch

the single

statement

of breeze &

loss & quaint

beauty

things I’ve

had since

I was a

kid

the secrets

of my home.

I feel con

demned

by this

chaotic

museum

of stuff &

yes I

desire

to photograph

it the

bowls u liked

the cup

u touched

& me in a teeshirt

that used

to be special

& now I

carouse in

bed w myself

in it. I don’t

know if

this

will ever

be different

and that

is the

feeling of

this.

 

I feel like

a tree

the invisible

part of friendship

and drinking

together

and warning.

 

One empty wall

is the least

I can do

for myself.

Late at night

I enjoy

the brown

pages of a cowboy

show

teevee

on my lap

till practically

dawn

interesting

written

by a gambler

 

oh I have

so many

shows

one in Florence

one day

you were

taking a shower

I think

I thought

I love

this television

 

because

it’s become

the way

to love

the road

of becoming

is a screen

belonging

on it in

my dream.

 

The excellent

moments

the man

barges in

and says

do you ever

think

about

film. The poetry

of accident

haunts

like a circus

tent over

my days

 

and that

fades

and a new

one. I

begin to

write

about dying.

THIS

story ends.

It begins

to be part

of the plot

and do I

love you

for your

distance

from it

or could

I love you

because

you are

close

or your

exciting

difference

so smart.

I love

myself.

The squeaky

little voice

that says

in here

owning the void

and grooving

on it. Voice

over

you’re not

so bad

and then

I begin

to work.

 

My dead

mother

is around

my lover

not far

keeping u

here by

not calling

anyone

is that the tub

in which

I die.

 

Weir-doo

woo woo

woo

 

what’s that

bird.

 

because

I don’t

have kids

and this

is such

a blessing.