In The Air, There Your Root Remains,

Illegibility Of This World. All Things Twice Over. The Strong Clocks Justify The Splitting Hour, Hoarsely. You , Clamped Into Your Deepest Part, Climb Out Of Yourself For Ever.

The Heart Hid Still In The Dark, Hard As The Philosophers Stone.

With Wine And Being Lost, With Less And Less Of Both: I Rode Through The Snow, Do You Read Me I Rode God Far--i Rode God Near, He Sang, It Was Our Last Ride Over The Hurdled Humans. They Cowered When They Heard Us Overhead, They Wrote, They Lied Our Neighing Into One Of Their Image-ridden Languages.

Only Truthful Hands Write True Poems. I Cannot See Any Basic Difference Between A Handshake And A Poem.

There Was Earth Inside Them, And They Dug.