March: Year-day 67

    
                                           
                                              

March: Year-day 67

So, now, electricians/ swarm through the house,
their antennae, live wires; their wings, hard wood;
their nerve centers, transformers; and I, mouse,
my gestures soft static, guess where I should
escape to, but don't, knowing I must run
the columns of figures as rapidly
as circumstance allows as one and one
and another employee assists me.

Audit.  Audit.  No time to fret about
small out-of-balances.  No time to finish
each day's report, imagine each day's sonnet,
the early-morning / late-night crush of stout
linemen more than enough to quite diminish
my energy for the torn land's . . . beyond it.

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