How tough you make things
on slow afternoons—lounging
around is too much or not enough,
you always say "Come out!" or
"Go inside!" as if peace is to be found
in either place, as if happiness
is simply the position of the body
in relation to all other bodies—
warm ones, round ones in space,
the ones I imagine next to me
on the downtown bus, pointing at
a line in the book they're reading
as if to say "Look! This makes
me think of you!" There are ten
places I could be right now,
twenty-seven years I could step
inside like a slipper or a protest
outside an absurd gold building,
but first I'll sit on an old couch
& think of you, blood organ, &
how you control me, how I'd like
you to keep doing that for a while.