In the white and unglamorous small box slipping off the screen,
the new texture of our days beams onto us
like silk screen. The next taut hour is stretched over
the window. All I see is light, blue. Pearl earrings.
I can’t tell where your eyes are focused.

This is the new morning.
Three coffee filters in the trash can.
Sharp into green. My teeth are so stained.
Down at the mailbox, a bird is sitting and singing
and it sounds like Vivaldi, it sounds like every season
compressed into a feathered throat. I was thirteen
when the canary died, a yellow spot on the newspaper.

I want to tell you why I have placed the sticker
over my webcam. To download you like
an illegal movie and watch you at 4 AM.
To not be able to fall asleep. A voice soaks through me
like lapping waves. The sand congeals into pavement.
We have been buried under the soap-soft horizon.

When my eyelids open to grey, when my mouth tastes
the pink of my own tongue. When you have your camera off.
I watch for the glimmering border. Breathe from the window,
roll up the screen for the flies. Lost long strands of hair
cover the floor, and they could be yours –
everything is dust, everything is pixels, now.