She collects my words, wraps 
them in onion paper, trims the edges 
with the small light of her face.
Dust from her eyes covers my lips,
her breasts curve like petals of sun, 
a music box on the sill plays Bach, folds 
soft notes in the nest of my sandpaper arms. 
I imagine empty harbors
asleep under the waterfall of her hair, 
draw circles on the wall with my finger.