Tori on PBS
flings her wild red-algae hair
rising, settling against the tide
of a fresh blue beat note.

My sister, she read my poetry
before I left and resurfaced.
I didn't understand.
She watches, too.

Turn it down on that "Waitress" song;
they're sleeping and wouldn't understand
what we've found channel-surfing,
talking silence around her quivering voice.

What can you say,
when you realize she's
grown into and out of you
at once, in Dreamtime.

The piano invents ivory chords
without sheet music, Tori's apron
flies, falling snowflakes, winter
cooling faster than I.