The shape of her bed-frame is like a seashell, is erotic, like tulips. The stereo sits near her left-stocking foot and her toes wiggle when the rhythm changes. And her honey hair whistles in the breeze. Warmth comes in sharp gasps. Stars litter the courtyard. She smells like perfume and she washes her sheets three times a day. The light comes in around three, when it bounces off of the black oak desk and the blown glass lamp on the cherrywood bookshelf and on the hanging hummingbird feeder which is rarely frequented but which she keeps for the way it glows at night. Her thighs steep like jasmine tea, in her own sweat on her pillowcases. She and her thoughts could sit for a while, watching the clouds make shadows on the floor, or watching the lavender swooping in the wind (it moves like ballroom dancers). Or noticing the way the sun is good at sitting still. She turns to a thought. Can I ask you something about the stillness? She folds herself into the shape of a fetus, and tastes different phrases underneath her tongue. Trying them out. Where cormorants live is where the trees grow as tall as the sky and is where she eventually dies, in a ball, on a bed of soft moss and laughter.