MEMES

It is quiet here. There were only the guitars
-- But they did not come from the fountain,
They did not come from the stilted air. -- Admit
The computer’s clang, from whatever whence
Its inspiration sprang, is still a sound, and still resounds
Even if only the horizons are stained where mountain
Meets sky, even if the rustle of the leaves panes
Of clearest glass retain. It is elsewhere of thought
Leaking into the inaction of reactions, beating itself
Into fury of its own sounds, that traverses
The multiplication of distance in order to fill
What is empty and empty what it would fulfill.