Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

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

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

Rush Of Pine Scent (once Upon A Time), The Unlicensed Conviction There Ought To Be Another Way Of Saying This.

The Heart Hid Still In The Dark, Hard As The Philosophers Stone.

Tall Poplars--human Beings Of This Earth!