Even now, as my fingers

Turn incised in time,

As my eyes fall upon

The dusting of artificial

Sweetener some careless

Hand forgot, I wonder

On the involute silence

Of empty space.


     A never

Silent silence. Bespotted

Always with the stigmata

Of an omnipresent hum.


This hum is not unlike

The hum of industry

But for its source— its source

Lies hidden deep in the earth,

Or perhaps it originates

In my very skull.


This hum, this ceaseless

Murmuring, I think at times

To be existence itself

Sighing without end.


From here I can almost see

The opening doors and feet

And hands descending like

Locusts. Foreknowledge needs

Not prophesy. And I hear,

Now as then, the lingering hum

Deafening always and louder

Only in silence.


by Dan Pizappi


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