she hibernates offscreen while I swirl
with an off-course accuracy, my red-green
Anarkali frolicking like a raindrop pulsating
or a five-year-old navigating the entire territory
no wider than the TV screen I find myself awake
in every day pretending not to notice her noticing me;

she reclines on a sofa, her face lit with the
red-green brilliance of the pixels I’m made of
unfamiliar with her room folding inwards, I’d like
to look at her, tell her it’d choke her but I’ll disintegrate,
besides, she’ll distance herself from me if I remind her of
the dangers of lying torpid for too long; as I spin, she spins

with me, the universe we birthed together
in eternal vertigo, I sneak a glance or two every
time I face her mid-spin afraid if I look for too long
I’ll dissipate into poor pixels, and though she’s often tired
of birdsongs in corporate cubicles; heartaches in dim-lit alleys;
doomsday on a kitchen table; natural history in desiccated buildings;
                          and all those gods on Broadway; she’s not, yet, tired of me

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