The silence that isn't silence
is a cacophony of self
echoing in the cocoon.

All of our names for everything are wrong.
Because they're ours and all things
have better names of their own.

Not a rejection, just a recognition.
How better to destroy something
than by discovering its name?

Everything means,
though it may not mean to me.
Poetry, poverty. Many, one.

How better to discover something
than by destroying its name?
Garish description of rococo perception.

Shy electrons,
energy, enemy,
fouled with fame.