To those untimely friended

By all my ungot prayers

Which have ultimately ended

In ethereal but empty airs

(Always faithfully replied,

To be completely fair,

But what digits breed

Can digits hide),

On whose disrepair

My Apple feeds

(The accidental debtors

Of those mis-sent screeds

And electrically dead letters),

Deserted posts

Not heard or seen

By the topologic ghosts

In my Möbius machine,

Whose unaired mails

Dare to vaporize

Behind the veils

On which Oz relies:

May the sun their screen suspends

By these shadows make amends.