Her hands small upon the strings,
and he, shut-eyed,
traveling in his head with the strings
expanding tall in the black
glistening brown and grey,
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
she’s unhurried in her sleep.
quietly raising and twirling her curly
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
no longer bobbing,
flowing in a clear mountain stream
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.