Stingy north suns have dried their skin to paper.
Do not make them get up. Here movement spells loss.
Their trouserbacks spinnaker toward noplace.
Voices soft as felt bolster precedent and rule.
Tap-tap-tap, go the flat arpeggios of fact.
The windowsill harbours concussed insects, a cross-
legged cockroach, hecatombs of hyphens, commas, stops.
And yet with leathered gravitas their seats exalt them!
Such shrunken certainties, rustling righteousness,
Strictly earthbound and prickly Thou Shalt Nots
In the tunnels of their gaze you wait, sweat, wait,
Prospects hanging upon a single blink,
A twist of lip…