The Heart Hid Still In

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

A Nothing We Were, Are, Shall Remain, Flowering: The Nothing--, The No One's Rose.

Black Milk Of Daybreak We Drink It At Sundown.

He Speaks Truly Who Speaks The Shade.

A Poem, Being An Instance Of Language, Hence Essentially Dialogue, May Be A Letter In A Bottle Thrown Out To The Sea With The-surely Not Always Strong-hope That It May Somehow Wash Up Somewhere, Perhaps On The Shoreline Of The Heart. In This Way, Too, Poems Are En Route: They Are Headed Towards. Toward What? Toward Something Open, Inhabitable, An Approachable You, Perhaps, An Approachable Reality. Such Realities Are, I Think, At Stake In A Poem.