How You Die Out In Me: Down

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

Reachable, Near And Not Lost, There Remained In The Midst Of The Losses This One Thing: Language. It, The Language, Remained, Not Lost, Yes, In Spite Of Everything. But It Had To Pass Through Its Own Answerlessness, Pass Through Frightful Muting, Pass Through The Thousand Darknesses Of Deathbringing Speech. It Passed Through And Gave Back No Words For That Which Happened; Yet It Passed Through This Happening. Passed Through And Could Come To Light Again, “enriched” By All This.

The Language With Which I Make My Poems Has Nothing To Do With One Spoken Here, Or Anywhere.

Black Milk Of Daybreak We Drink It At Sundown.

Tall Poplars--human Beings Of This Earth!