Even now, as my fingersTurn incised in time,As my eyes fall uponThe dusting of artificialSweetener some carelessHand forgot, I wonderOn the involute silenceOf empty space.      A neverSilent silence. BespottedAlways with the stigmataOf an omnipresent hum. This hum is not unlikeThe hum of industryBut for its source— its sourceLies hidden deep in the earth,Or perhaps it originatesIn my very skull. This hum, this…