Sometimes she rests so long she rises
and the light is gone from the window,
the leaves have let go of the tree's hand.
A decline in effort correlates to a decline
in profit, in production, in sweetness of song—
she suspects, though who at this exact moment
is listening? Brain has made up its mind
to be the quiet half of the conversation,
lacking humor, lazy on the uptake,
late to the table, but her hands just keep doing
what she even half wills them to,
the way it takes love a long time to find
another way. But even her hands will lie flat if she keeps an eye.
Either the floor or the back of her head is singing.