Neither location nor legitimacy
Fish now swim through the
libraries of Atlantis, while the scrolls
and tomes of Alexandria
wick like candles
and burn for weeks.
A boy's secret stash (at ten it is comic books
he hides; at twelve it's porn) is tossed
out by his mother, while in the computer
age, copyeditors and proofreaders
are replaced by the software equivalent
of idiot savants.
Nor must an actual physical
building be involved: a single
neuron in the brain, misfiring
or calcifying, might be repository
enough for loss. What once was
capturable as vision or verse
now becomes dross, engulfed
by darkness, untidied by the
weather, continental drift, old age—
virtual dogs eating too real homework.
Hence words vanish; formulae become
re-encrypted; poems die
on the vine, like unwatered grapes.
Typos multiply or are sanctioned
by spellchecking drones.
Let us therefore accept the inarguable:
Saint Murphy has always been right
and chaos will continue to leak
from the faulty nib of the universe.
Nevertheless, it is possible to stand
against the tide. The most important thing,
which not only combines consolation
and panacea, but may also help resolve
the loss, errors, and corruption—
Hold on a second. Someone is knocking
at the door.