Here You Go

I can see the coin you're trying to hide
under the pink by your gums and their blue veins.
Let me move the silver around with my tongue
until you're free. Heavy in the mix: hip thrusts
into a pillow like a trucker's brain quivering on air and meth.
Doze over cold static music in February.
A month of longing with oils and elixirs until the
light changes everything we can see again.
In the spin of the mix of these winter days
there is something green like what you'd see
a painter do, how she'd dazzle the grass, if
she was really good that's all you'd want to see,
that would be enough: her representation of grass.