Paperwork

Crumpled towers fill out

the entirety of the horizon,

stacks of monotonic ink and

records of records of records of

The sun is a coffee mug stain

in the printer paper sky. No

windows, only cuts and calluses

on the fingers, only cuts and calluses

Turning pages--waves of the Mediocre

Ocean--under down-turned, half-lidded eyes

under fluorescent lights under endless

layers of cubicles for each Social Security number

As the days turn--a mark of the calendar--

there flies yesterday's and tomorrow's flock

of birds, like check marks. Manila folder

graves darken upon the filing of the sun.