Immanence
by Eileen Myles

All the doors in my home are open.
There’s a pulse outside I want to hear.

The phone’s unplugged.
The pastiche of you on me would be unforgivable now.

If there’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.