Open Dark

A woman can make a million
when she downs the victory drug.

I would be typewriter with self.
I would be keys without doors.
I would be hands grown powerful.
I would be least still.
I would cross wild borders,
a wagon for home.
I dream of grass in crisis
and it is blue.
I am too late to quietly slip under,
too late to bring the machine.
I decline. I can,
maybe, wheedle a stick?
I am open dark.
I am heart of embers.
I am to have the man.