What fire hath wrought.

Melted wires, sparks. Cables
litter the machine-room floor.
A surfeit of color,
coded chaos strewn
over gunmetal grey concrete.

There is no air, no power.
Batteries sputter, wink out.
Terminals fade.

The tower crumbles into darkness,
and there is only rain—

rain, and this endless void
across telephone wires.

Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pink Litter, Triadæ, and Welter, among others.

featured image: Bob Modem