She is reading about birds
The galaxy at home spirals
around her unwashed hair,
bare legs crooked on the couch

her eyes do not
depart from the words

she is the voice
in my head, rereading
life listlessly, casual
bird watching, we wither
into stars like wanderers
inside a sand storm -

the sky twitches
outward; the starlings
scatter in the company
of poetasters mingling
blue with an ungodly white.

She turns away;
still content,
I watch the future sway
on the pinwheel she invents.