The curve of her hip
      strikes a resonance
with the moon
      in the window above the bed.

Like a silver scimitar,
      it rises in the East.
Both leave scars
      on my memory.

Shadows like black velvet
      hide the cheap furniture
and stacks of books
      half read.

Limbs entangle
      like a Chinese puzzle.
Maybe it takes too long
      to figure it out.