Poetry is perhaps this: an Atemwende, a turning of our breath. Who knows, perhaps poetry goes its wayЂ'the way of artЂ'for the sake of just such a turn? And since the strange, the abyss and Medusa's head, the abyss and the automaton, all seem to lie in the same directionЂ'is it perhaps this turn, this Atemwende, which can sort out the strange from the strange? It is perhaps here, in this one brief moment, that Medusa's head shrivels and the automaton runs down? Perhaps, along with the I, estranged and freed here