In The Air, There Your Root Remains,

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

How You Die Out In Me: Down To The Last Worn-out Knot Of Breath You're There, With A Splinter Of Life.

Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

You're Rowing By Wordlight

Only One Thing Remained Reachable, Close And Secure Amid All Losses: Language. Yes, Language. In Spite Of Everything, It Remained Secure Against Loss.