"The Space a Woman Is."
All that passes before it returns to the open eye.
The pupil contracted the single note.
Pounds the eye to a single plane.
I was pleased in the shadow I cast.
My shadow was enough.
In early morning, the wanderer, the gunfighter,
contented my skin.
In the form instead of my trousers.
On pavement of the wall, in air clear before other shadows.
I endured freedom.
My body defined the space around me.
Space to be filled.
The space a woman is.
9 o'clock, 9 o'clock the world is moving, it's 9 o'clock.
I looked into my grave.
But there were things to cling to.
That poetry pounded in the grass at the edge of my grave
and dreamed how it will be when my space runs out.
When Earth comes up to me opening
as pupil to darkness as soil opens for the seed glider.
No shadows in the Earth.
No sharp distinctions in love, in lust, in need of that space.