The Two Heart-grey Puddles: Two Mouthsfull Of

Spring: Trees Flying Up To Their Birds

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

With Wine And Being Lost, With Less And Less Of Both: I Rode Through The Snow, Do You Read Me I Rode God Far--i Rode God Near, He Sang, It Was Our Last Ride Over The Hurdled Humans. They Cowered When They Heard Us Overhead, They Wrote, They Lied Our Neighing Into One Of Their Image-ridden Languages.

I Went With My Very Being Toward Language.

German Poetry Is Going In A Very Different Direction From French Poetry.... Its Language Has Become More Sober, More Factual. It Distrusts "beauty." It Tries To Be Truthful.