Through binoculars the spiral nebula was
a smudged white thumbprint on the night sky.
Stories said it was a mark left by the hand
of Night， that old she， easily weaving
the universe out of milky strings of chaos.
Beatrice found creation more difficult.
Tonight what she had was greasy water
whirling in the bottom of her sink， revolution，
and one clean cup.
She set the blue cup
down on the table， spooned instant coffee， poured
boiling water， a thread of sweetened milk. Before
she went back to work， she drank the galaxy that spun
small and cautious between her chapped cupped hands.