by Eileen Myles

I’m trying

to figure

out what

kind of fucked

up flower

a reflection

is

when everything

dances

in a bowl

of aluminum

day’s on

no extra

light

just the color

scheme

of the gym

& thinking

about that

the tile is that

exact

shade which

is not quite

white

they chose

it and it’s

why the

feeling is not

exact

I’ve got

to lie

down

on the mat

to see

the frond

peeping

through

the

window

sitting up there’s

too much

a bending plant

a grille
the whole

life of

the gym

not the tiny

crop

like sitting in a

Muslim

restaurant

and the cow

peeps in

like that

I’m trying to

sort

out a

few things

at this

exact

moment

in my life

something

more

marvelous

than a category

the body

place is

a thinking

place

a surprise

here

a day isn’t

a bookshelf

unless it’s

the endless

process

of

pulling one

down

and hours or

years

later

putting it back

up for

some other reason

among its

new friends

I don’t really

need

glasses

to write

but I squint

and gradually

that grows

unfamiliar