To the chairman having his way in the chair with the minutes.

To the motion he makes to suspend them.

To a hole in the sky like the eye in a needle,

                       wide enough to thread,

wide enough to see through.

Let's sew this up, says the chairman.

To the matter at hand

and the handle he has on it. To the hand he has in it.

And to the secretary, writing it down, taking the minutes.

The chair sits.

His face flushes like a sun gathering color

                       before the sky's won over and

                                                                       the dark takes hold.

Then moistens. The chair loosens his tie.

To the consummate still life:

The conference table and the water glasses sweating

and the coat tossed over the back of the chair.