the drear, stagnant core of day, when grey mass thrums ambient and office dirt stirs, when phones wake, with a rattle, a rattle, a rattle, to spew words skywards, which ask if I might meet, if tonight I might stay, if tonight I might yield and accept his limbs to roam mutely over mine, to release when come and consciousness depart, denuding expectation to a low day’s muddle, where, in the pressure of limerence, eyes wend windowwards, slinking beyond money, beyond Monday, to nothingness, to worlds without thought or obligation, where I might neither acquiesce nor fall victim to sloth, where I might yet hold firm, resistive for a moment, if only that