The Two Heart-grey Puddles: Two Mouthsfull Of

Spring: Trees Flying Up To Their Birds

Death Is A Master From Germany.

The Language With Which I Make My Poems Has Nothing To Do With One Spoken Here, Or Anywhere.

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

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?