Hölderlin
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Wind dabbles in the trees making it snow
a second time. Steiner said there are twelve
senses, and the phrase, sine qua non, is silly.

Nothing is essential—not even the air. Ask
the dead if you don’t believe me. Everything
is the sound of one hand clapping, even wild applause.

I don’t know about you, but I have so many
sudden attachments and it’s the night that reveals
my intentions for each, and every one.

Do centuries pronounce vowels like we do?
I’m guessing they draw them out a little longer,
and their consonant sounds are probably a bit muddied.

Radiance, Hölderlin spent his life in a tower,
your foot resting in the shoe feels nice,
and even chimney smoke casts shadows over the snow.