MILK

I flew into New York

and the season

changed

a giant burr

something hot was moving

through the City

that I knew

so well. On the

plane though it was

white and stormy

faceless

I saw the sun

& remembered the warning

in the kitchen

of all places

in which I was

informed my wax

would melt

no one had gone high

around me,

where’s the fear

I asked the

Sun. The birds

are out there

in their scattered

cheep. The people

in New York

like a tiny chain

gang are connected

in their

knowing

and their saving

one another. The

morning trucks

growl. Oh

save me from

knowing myself

if inside

I only melt.

—Eileen Myles