My Eyes, Those Sluts, Those Whores, Would

When Someone Kisses Someone Or Flushes The Toilet It Is My Other Who Sits In A Ball And Cries. My Other Beats A Tin Drum In My Heart. My Other Hangs Up Laundry As I Try To Sleep. My Other Cries And Cries And Cries When I Put On A Cocktail Dress.

I Sit At My Desk Each Night With No Place To Go, Opening The Wrinkled Maps Of Milwaukee And Buffalo, The Whole U.s., Its Cemeteries, Its Arbitrary Time Zones, Through Routes Like Small Veins, Capitals Like Small Stones.

Sometimes I Fly Like An Eagle But With The Wings Of A Wren

I Leave You, Home, When I'm Ripped From The Doorstep By Commerce Or Fate. Then I Submit To The Awful Subway Of The World.

Being Sixteen In The Pants I Died Full Of Questions