A Susurrus of Turning Pages

a susurrus of turning pages
wakes me when she reads each morning
her flurried fiction allergy
triggered by the world she woke to

"Care you nothing for waking life?"
I murmur from beneath
dawn-shields of blankets
and a pillow helm

"Only you," she says
and flips a page
"and the mirrors to the art I love."

I dreamt of nettle stings
and her honesty annoys me
"Nothing else? Suppose you one day wake with child?"

"Foolish man" her eyebrow arched
"our child shall be all those things."

I do not argue further
which she knows means I love her madly
and her mastery of worlds
bound and unbound