800 meters

How is it my flesh has bleed into the earth
The numbered sign on the algorithm
Less than less then
Advertising glitching on hangnails
As static as well groomed beards
Measuring predictability like seagulls at rest
But with harpoons and the great white,
Nets and boats on the coastal deposits of
Comfort and distraction
Pages passing time, recording time
Impressing an image of myself I do not know
Onto the white peaked tips of televised
Envelopes with secreted labyrinths
So that my mind is a number, myself data
To be given an unknown, less than
The scaled ceilings on the catwalk
Eight hundred meters high