Small Cogs by Louise Wilford

the days wind on,
the teeth of small cogs
driving the larger one
but there are other rooms
where pirate men in ties
cut out our hearts,

spreadsheeting
sails to catch the wind,
ready to skewer us

with a powerpoint –
while breath holds, dreams
stick to the wrong surfaces,

brigands leap from shelf
to shelf, waving cutlasses,
and laced bodices stretch

in the arched backs of passion,
tendrils of hair untie, the salt-scent
beckons from an ocean

of pixels, book-birds spiral
in a mackerel sky,
and I sit at my laptop

in the room at the back,
inserting numbers in columns,
sipping toner and old dust.