His gift receded. He could write no more.
Be silent then, until the thing returns.
We have Goethe’s warrant
for idling when no theme presents itself
or none that can be handled suitably:
I fall back on that high word.

I hate his race though, except Holderlin
& Kleist, whom he clasped both to Henry’s bosom:
A suicide & a madman,
to teach him lessons who has so far neither.
The language best handled by a foreigner,
Kafka, old pal.

Henry, monstrous bug, laid himself down
on the machine in the penal colony
without a single regret.
He was all

regret, swallowing his own vomit,
disappointing people, letting everyone down
in the forests of the soul.