Bitch Wire

I was becoming the person with many slips of paper
in her purse. Sobriety adjacent, sandal-wearing,
country fling garden instead of beastly wild pocket.
Maybe in the dream I wore a wire, recorded
my own heart-flex. So many of us want this episode
to end, but it’s beyond live, and the coyotes just
pups in an abandoned snowplow tire, dots of polish
on plastic frost. We all compared our levels
of preservation, the goal to resist change like a hill
pounded yearly by weeds. Some mechanism
got me from one point to another, adolescent bus
entering but not exiting the damp underpass
tagged Stairway to Heaven back when relevant.
Like many, I poured my best years into
a Springform pan, but they were stupid years.