Let us type then, you and I,
Into spreadsheets spread against the sky
Like an object melted into a table.
Let us go, through certain half-converted sheets,
The muttering bip-bleeps
Of mismatched types on one-night cheap cloud cells,
All fluorescent glints in Telco hotels:
Hallways that cut like layers in cake
(Or quiche, it's with spinach they make)
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh do not ask, "What format is it?"
Join us won't you to delimit?