Sitting outside in America is an Eileen Myles pursuit. Every time I do it I think of an Eileen Myles poem—from throwing open “all the doors in my home” because “There’s a pulse outside I want to hear” in “Immanence” ( Maxfield Parrish , 1995) to the “fat little Buddha” in the yard in “Sweet Heart” ( evolution , 2018), ice cracking as the poet pours coke—decidedly not Fresca—into a glass (I, a Brit, once had to get them to explain Fresca to me). In one of my favorites, a quiet poem called “our happiness,” a late afternoon stoop is illuminated by a last bit of money spent on “a strong cappuccino / which we shared / sitting there & / suddenly the / city was lit.” It is a relief, therefore, to discover afresh that Myles has been sitting outside in America since the beginning of their career.…