The open window steals signals
off the router, sending my wireless
around the world—a Marconi trap
of internet foam, intricate bubbles—
steel-coated, roiling around graceless,
packets of synaptic solitude
with no binding tongue to connect.
Babel's confusion curse perfected,
self-created without the voice of God,
speaking the swirling sounds unheard
except to self, words of self, alone to self—
beyond the breath of angels leaving
private prayers known wholly to none.
