The protesting sound of a wind-braced villa merges
with the creak of an armchair's springs.
Long hands hold a newspaper,
Opened to the agony columns.
A small clock's heartbeat marks time organically as
Aged gold of the sun floods the surfaces
(Richness of rug and darkness of wood)
The wind yet speaks.
Soporific effects take hold,
encapsulating in a yawn
and the papers flutter to the floor.
There is yet time.