How You Die Out In

The Two Heart-grey Puddles: Two Mouthsfull Of Silence.

They've Healed Me To Pieces.

We Are Told That When Hölderlin Went 'mad,' He Constantly Repeated, 'nothing Is Happening To Me, Nothing Is Happening To Me.'

Poetry Is Perhaps This: An Atemwende, A Turning Of Our Breath. Who Knows, Perhaps Poetry Goes Its Way—the Way Of Art—for The Sake Of Just Such A Turn? And Since The Strange, The Abyss And Medusa’s Head, The Abyss And The Automaton, All Seem To Lie In The Same Direction—is It Perhaps This Turn, This Atemwende, Which Can Sort Out The Strange From The Strange? It Is Perhaps Here, In This One Brief Moment, That Medusa’s Head Shrivels And The Automaton Runs Down? Perhaps, Along With The I, Estranged And Freed Here, In This Manner, Some Other Thing Is Also Set Free?

In The Air, There Your Root Remains, There, In The Air