A Nothing We Were, Are, Shall Remain,

Black Milk Of Daybreak We Drink It At Sundown.

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.

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

Each Arrow You Shoot Off Carries Its Own Target Into The Decidedly Secret Tangle

Reality Is Not Simply There, It Does Not Simply Exist: It Must Be Sought Out And Won.