A Nothing We Were, Are, Shall Remain,

Black Milk Of Daybreak We Drink It At Sundown.

The Two Heart-grey Puddles: Two Mouthsfull Of Silence.

There Was Earth Inside Them, And They Dug.

There's Nothing In The World For Which A Poet Will Give Up Writing, Not Even He Is A Jew And The Language Of His Poems Is German.

A Poem, As A Manifestation Of Language And Thus Essentially Dialogue, Can Be A Message In A Bottle, Sent Out In The –not Always Greatly Hopeful-belief That Somewhere And Sometime It Could Wash Up On Land, On Heartland Perhaps. Poems In This Sense Too Are Under Way: They Are Making Toward Something. Toward What? Toward Something Standing Open, Occupiable, Perhaps Toward An Addressable Thou, Toward An Addressable Reality.