Analgesia in Her Morning's Eyeline

Unwittingly, as the estuary of
February ebbs from over the lines
Of legs dangled into its current
Under desks—legs the plucked feel of
Drumsticks to humid hands—the eyeline's
Glaze through layers of a conifer
Surface polish hazing from the next
Cubicle greys at the monitor.
The sun is butter on the screen's text,
Under which each of its abhorrent
Creatures sees, sour-sweet a moment,
Each's analgesic and only
Features: in her airconned cowlick these
Waves, the taxiings of galaxies.