Her hands small upon the strings,
and he, shut-eyed,
leg-crossed, listening
traveling in his head with the strings

expanding tall in the black
cushioned chair

sparrow feather
falling,
glistening brown and grey,
sea-sawing plush
side to side, up and down
swinging in the wind.

Later, raised on their mutual four post bed
above the worn old wide pine floor,
hugging the matching peacock pattern
cotton pillows,
she’s unhurried in her sleep.

He’s awake,
quietly raising and twirling her curly
ginger hair,

tracing above the straight corner of her lips, the place she clinches to concentrate,
spot of tiny muscles scribbling her laughs.

Hidden in the sleep-brail touch,
he travels, as she sleeps
poised and transparent in coupling —

reddish-yellow fallen leaf
submerged,
no longer bobbing,
flowing in a clear mountain stream
suspended

just below the water’s surface
with expectations of morning coffee,
a sugary-decadent sweet

while privately rehearsing,
her fingers on the strings,
in her sleep.

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