#115
I cannot tell you what I know because I can't.
You hear only what you imagine I can say,
Which is everything: what is evanescent,
And why you hear, or what is already empty.
I'm impossible, the opposite of being,
As darkness is the false negative of seeing.
But, if you can seek me out, I am a music,
Composed and at rest, a tune without beat or notes
(The Sirens would have shrieked, blasting voices
Into cracked larynxes just to mimic),
A sonata unwhispered I unlearned by rote,
My own sweet refusal to make any choices.
Now be quiet, if only for a moment
Stay your life, if only for a moment
