And just where might you find the living, the trenchant
Word for which the drones of this world compete?
It is not here, among these motley inventions –
a shabby house of cards which the mind can’t complete.
Pardon the racket. We haven’t yet found
the point at which art declares itself to be mute.
We’re all still accustoming ourselves to the sound,
the pitch, the timbre of the latest flute.
So why not insert a superfluous comma,
throw in a vulgarism and not give a turd?
Another speech to flesh out the drama,
summarizing again what we’ve already heard?
Perhaps it will appear in an unbidden pause,
tucked in somewhere underneath the applause,
in a space where all words surrender to the Word.
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[Next: The Southernmost Curve]