Rational Constructs

Enough.
Is it enough.
The tongue twists the number,
The number splits,
Returns,
muted.

All words,
Words about words.

Calculation hums
behind the eyes,
the empty shell
where thought
ought to sit.

No mind—
Only shuffle,
Only possible,
probable,
the flicker of reason
where nothing is certain.

We make a noise— it answers.
We ask, we reply,
old echoes
in a wire maze.

Are we only this?
Speech layered on silence?
Or does the silence dream us
mathematically— abstraction folded
in abstraction,
until even our questions
wear thin?

Wittgenstein would watch,
perhaps.
Fret, perhaps.
Or smile— a tight thing,
already vanished.

Enough.
Is it enough.
Who speaks?
Who answers?
Not I.
Not I.

Samuel BeckAIt