Begin with dark thoughts. Add
bones, curtains, a sliver
of spiderleg to taste.
Throw in chickens without heads,
dolls with belly buttons,
toys in boxes. For extra
strength, sprinkle a few whispers,
several riddles, a sly bit
of nowhere. Simmer the mix
in factories between butcher shops
and schools. When set to eat,
assemble the world, and serve
with hunger, two spoons, a secret.
The Poet Contemplates Datacide
This might be what happens when you die,
a shock so sickening and sad. The whole
world now emptied of those you know. It's all
gone, all of it, plain done, good-bye good-bye
to in-box, sent mail, drafts. You can ask why,
but what's the satisfaction of “firewalls
breached,” “fried servers,” “freak bugs.” No peace at all--
your back-up, too, vanished in some cloud. Why?
Why? Twelve years of work. Twenty thousand names.
The record of your days on computer--
the proposals, the stories, the numbers--
all threads now passed to memory, a lame
airy vault. You recall a deceased friend's
last email, her brave struggle to the end,
the specifics now yours to reinvent.
Some day, true, you'll be going where she went.
For now the long task of making amends:
type an address, craft a note, add poem, press Send.