Prosa, Proserpina, Prosa

What does the inner life of poems look like, which already procedurally lacks narration? More precisely: how does a text conceal what it is about (but not with what)? Between the "I" of an inner (almost inert) monologue and what "Achilles" already describes in its name (I and everything with each other), word figures (like: living a life, playing the game, dying deaths) lead and intertwine to a silent conversation. This ranges from strings spun in love to a narrative yarn and also funeral of intertwined thought processes: lines of relationships whose words, "like flowers" (literally ligature) touch and ligate each other, intersect, overlap and lose each other again - like the lines of a hand. The book is one when read from front to back and back to front: as joining all along the line, without end or turn (literalness of prose as direct as districte speech), in monodic one-liners that "meander" (literalness of proserpina) and "extend" in the areal area of the poetry of the prose of the poetry, and so on. - In general, the wordless goes around in a good poem like the gods seen in Homer's battles only by a few (Klopstock).