What would it tell if it could mutter?
What undertones undersounded, what pinfall,
what susurr from the heart-tied-tongueless
surdo-mute? Still it still murmurs.
Though faint and want of voice it finds
its way into a throat—all sotto voce.
But there it falters and it stammers; its hum
is not enough to distract us from its hammer.
And whether wild or idle, despite its urge to push,
the pump-organ swishes only towards a mumbling—
yes and no—non-answer. No windfall then?
It knows us or knows better. Its silent syllable is hush,
despite the wish all ways that it could speak
about a thing—or barring that, that it would sing.