Pity the still of the sitter’s
routine, recumbently stuck in her dull rapture rut, par for the course, and no
worse for the wear. What static, vacuous labor it takes, to stretch out a couch, to keep a look put, the de facto embargo
on rising or sighing, not to fritter
an itch, not straighten a slouch or tuck in a foot but to remain so ably, so complacently lush, contained and unstirred, attained and untouched.