Grete Writes to Georg at War

You’ve started to writeabout black horses again,dear, but I can only envy

the mouse with his quick,imperfect heart. My ownis churlish, rimed, too slow.

I’ve been drifting, lately,collecting bobbins sinceyou left. What you don’t

know is that your goingwas an ocean. The hollowI could call love. I heard

you saw men dead in a field.

G, you might have been the prize.The salt packed in my organs,the magnificent shore.

I would give myself upto your hands, finallyplanchette, your silent, dear queen.