A modem now holds steady at 0 baud, in summer winds rustling like line noise. Dust settles on a faded keyboard, poised askew, a forgotten idol's grey facade. No monitor sleep light awaits the caress of mouse, or space bar's careless press. Spam stacks up, joining griefs and joys of e-mails past, bookmarks well-trod -- we cannot find a forwarding address. And somewhere, in an airy corner blessed with bright wiring, built-in firewalls (and no need to share the line with voice), as bandwidth hymns soar in those shining halls, she checks her websites at the knee of God.
See the Poem Vaults!
(They're even indexed!
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