in describing I would name, lose

Love is an assumption 

that is my argument 

rudely transposing me
as a certain process
or in relationship to sanity
or I suppose this is an argument
between the body &
the soul
whether the chicken hatches
the egg.
Alone in my soul
or through the bodies of others
which confuse
& disarm
in a really provocative manner.
O
what financial disaster
to lie among sheep
propose that all men are sheep
all women.
Plato has me hot in drag
and they're all brilliant
perceptions. Who amongst
me is really getting off? Trans-
positions rudely transposing me.
In my argument I am amused.
I'd really like to tell
you of my love. But
in describing I would name,
lose
my love in attempts
to praise.
You must know I'm talking to you.
The absolutely horrible
cotillion of my thoughts.
I like to get really stoned
and revise everything I've ever done
Leaning
against the refrigerator
thinking I would kill to be 

in bed with you right
now.
I get up.
Turn down my hamburger, re-establishing
myself
into a reading at the
Gotham, a man next to me
comments, "It's amazing
how Irish Catholics
are so uncomfortable inside
of their bodies...."
I smile knowingly

Bernadette Devlin crossing
the border
I get up again to put cheese on
my burger
theorizing of poems based
on appetite, the time elapsed
proceeding on the multitudes
of varying angles
separate climes ...
Am I not inside my life?
Is my life the many places I can be
alive in & not get nostalgic
about?
Is man alone in the Universe?
What about me? I'm
replacing a lightbulb
and thinking about you.
I'm a phoney. The illusion of love
is no substitute
for the actual
experience of being a carpenter
which I have never
ever considered being.

[Eileen Myles {1949- } 'La Vita Nuova', from I Must be Living Twice]