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.