Still Life I

Tiredness seeps, I feel
pores open, limbs ache.
Room silentstill, undisturbing,
I can think.
Books placed, sit placid, 
even-rowed and arranged 
according to subject of course,
(scrupulous about books).
Eye swivels, cushions jumbled,
all in a heap of peach and blue,
and colours pivot up from the rug
to jag the air, such vivid power
they almost sound,
and the cane chair
gleams a pale, self-effacing gold.
The little wooden men over there
stand bold, correct on their squares
and the blank screen stares sightless and black
at the waves hung on the wall mid-climb, 
curls of froth stuck high, and me - I have
all these things around me -
all are mine and my high-ceiling'd space -
here I lie and contemplate,
citynoisepeople out there.
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