The sound of cellos
is a paper fan opening. But all good music
is mostly salt and butter
you say. The basses
a heavy door humming
over the floor. You sleep
with your mouth agape
and your tongue is an ember
that glows the color
of mountain streams with iron
in their beds. You call to mind
the scent of old pennies
and fresh snow. Tongue and teeth
casting an hourglass of light
onto the ceiling
so faint it is nearly a shadow.
In the bog, there are pitcher plants
that turn the wind to a single
note. And oboes are the sound
of a jar of marbles opening. The music
leaves you with the taste of well water and caraway.