She tried to convince me
that she was the list of all things
the ontology
She placed the back of my head
against her breasts then kneaded the pain
from my shoulders
Her rhythms were micro
inside at times then upon the muscle
a consummate masseuse
She turned me folded around
hot moist wrappings
settled-in cool smooth sheets
She leaves a dulcet tone
rung before it’s struck
reverberating
still
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 
I like the feel of this poem. And I am using this comment box to tell you I made a minor change in Aunt Helen’s Sky Light.
Thank you, Joanna. I have re-read Aunt Helen’s Sky Light and am unable to pick up on the change; failing memory. Assuming it is not as minor as punctuation, the 1 thing that does not ring solid in memory is the reference to the flattened box. 🙂 —CC