Tall Poplars--human Beings Of This Earth!

Each Arrow You Shoot Off Carries Its Own Target Into The Decidedly Secret Tangle

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

Spring: Trees Flying Up To Their Birds

Poetry Is Perhaps This: An Atemwende, A Turning Of Our Breath. Who Knows, Perhaps Poetry Goes Its Way—the Way Of Art—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 Direction—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, In This Manner, Some Other Thing Is Also Set Free?

Death Is A Master From Germany.