I am no afraid of an army of checks
Writing wields a grid, this grid.
Bearded and knitted, altogether grand-
parently, it turns on and off the lights, lights
the offices of the banks and open-late lenders, lights
the lines of a spreadsheet that do go on.
You will never reach the end, said the spreadsheet.
The figures are flat, your name and salutation,
address, PS. there is laundry inside the envelopes
on your little desk. This mandate writ on top of a building
with very mute, very pleasant paint on the walls,
little plots of cacti on the walkway, room temperature
not to exceed the briskness striding across the blue carpet.
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