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.