What one says is never what One meant; our voice is merely leant. Our source, if source there is sans ostinato, Is the silence where all speech goes. What's done is done dumb at last-- All else is ache above the grave. No verbal sangfroid relieves What the heart keeps bitterly. Timidly the diarist Records the cause that sprained his wrist. Pick sticky words from the alphabet of vomit; All memorial's of no moment.