Mourn the poem or porn locked inside or fried,
the white scrambled pre-word, impulses so electric
they’re post-, just the paths, the pulse.

The embarrassment of backup forgotten,
Alzheimer put on like a coat you paid a lot for,
months owed to a machine. Here—

take this, my life in numbered bundles.
Don’t forget. Such blackness arrives always
sudden and sad but peaceful, not even an accident

this time. And you, half-brained, mea culpa the air
where the data hadn’t risen to cloud height,
so suitable for burial, disremembered, dismembered.

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