when the woman in my music box
dances me to sleep on soundless nights,
my dreams stand stretched in arabesque.
long, slender stories, alabaster
lulled into being by a ballerina’s song
– balanced and balancing –
but when the jingle slows,
softens to match the soundlessness of my bedroom,
my dreams lose their footing
and stumble to one side.
and i feel sorry for
the woman in my music box
in such a stationary stance
with and unchanging soundtrack
and such little room to dance.