Tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury—
From fear of being called poor actors, some make no sound;
instead, observe how others build their soundless artifice
then call it art, something that struts and makes the sounds
that real hearts make, but without the suspect sound of old-
fashioned sincerity. The smallest sound that seems to cloy
is banned. Instead, a meta-sound’s encouraged, a way
to avoid having to make the sound of the cry itself,
avoid having to sound much too sincere, much too trusting
in the world’s ability to volley back a sound that says
We hear the sound you make in the night, in solitude:
sound that leaks out from close shuttered rooms,
sound of trains, of surf churned in the wake of vessels seeking harbor;
sound that issued from the throats of those now face-down in the sand.
In response to Via Negativa: Diner.
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