in his hands,
wet and pliable. He rolls me
out on his table, softly
caressing me. And I stick to

his fingers as a wet glove
covered in snow. I don’t want
to let go. I’m melting to his touch. All
my bits of hardness are broken

off and blended as a watercolor
in the rain. I rise as I dry
as the sun over the ocean in crimson
with streaks of gold. All this he rolled

with sweetness and years, with smiles
and with tears. I smell the waft
slip under his door as cinnamon and
clover, swirled into a sky of blue.