Scroll through drafts and write corrections,
emailing the old man your notes.
Note the main screen beside the side screen
as you curse, cursor pointed,
as you curse, time travels forward,
as you curse, letters spill from a vase
into which they can't return.
Clacking in a hallway no different
in China than in the Americas,
no different in India nor the great continent
of dark folk,
no different in the snowlands covered in blonds.
Everywhere the shoes sound
sounding fainter as recognizable figures
too distant and numerous, resembling dunes.
Behold the desert
and to the left the photocopier,
cackling in the hallways no different
to those who've traveled knowing
a forest of monkeys
but nothing grows.
We walk about holding squares.
We travel mornings to face squares.
As time progresses we become quadrangular,
moving as if we'll fall off the edge,
having gone too far.
The round red sun flattens to purple
and we end the evening covered in a sheet,
on a rectangle,
a shape too present,
a signal too high in frequency to be heard.
In air conditioned ergonomic rooms
we build an anthill that'll turn
the earth the shape of an icecream cone.
The file's returned inside an organized click
exploding in the main screen.
I move it to the side screen,
having screened it and having found it wanting.