The gray lull that yawns in afternoons.
The dull discomfort trickles along your scalp,
the nape of your neck,
settling around your shoulders.
A weightless yoke.
A verb problem--what to do,
this game of next, next, next suddenly
made visible, barely materialized,
a cobweb reaching one tentacle from a corner
and almost as quickly receding,
crab into dark, dark shell.