Standing in her house today all I could think of was whether she took a shit every
morning

or ever fucked anybody
or ever fucked
herself

God's poet
singing herself to sleep

You want these sorts of things for people

Bodies and
the earth
and

the earth inside

Instead of white
nightgowns and terrifying
letters
*
Here she comes
her hands out in front of her
like a child flying
above its bed
at night
Her ankles and wrists held tightly between the fingers of some brightly lit parent home
from a party

Flying

Her spine
spinning

Singing "Here I come!"

Her legs pumping
her heart
out
*
Heaven is everywhere
but there's still
the world
The world is made out of cancer, house fires, and Brain Death, here in America

But I love the world

Emily Dickinson
to the rescue

I used to think we were made of bread
gentle work and
water

We're not
but we're still beautiful
killing each other as much as we can
beneath the pines

The pines that are somebody's
masterpiece