Prosa, Proserpina, Prosa

What does the inner life of poems look like, when the narrative is already lacking in procedure? More precisely: how does a text conceal what it is about (but not how it does so)? Between the "I" of an inner (almost inert) monologue and what "Achilles" already depicts in its name (I and everything together), word figures (such as: living a life, playing the game, dying deaths) lead and intertwine into a silent conversation. This ranges from lovingly spun threads to narrative yarn and also funeral interwoven thought processes: lines of relationship, whose words, "like flowers" (in the literal sense of ligature) touch and connect with each other, cut across, overlap, and lose again - like the lines of a hand. The book is one, when it has been read from front to back and from back to front: as a connection throughout, without end and turn (the literal sense of prose as direct as well as districted speech), in monodic single lines that "slither forth" (the literal sense of Proserpina) and "extend" in the areal area of the poetry of the prose of poetry, etc. In general, the wordless wanders in a good poem like the gods seen by only a few in Homer's battles.