Who Is Invisible Enough To See You

A Poem, Being An Instance Of Language, Hence Essentially Dialogue, May Be A Letter In A Bottle Thrown Out To The Sea With The-surely Not Always Strong-hope That It May Somehow Wash Up Somewhere, Perhaps On The Shoreline Of The Heart. In This Way, Too, Poems Are En Route: They Are Headed Towards. Toward What? Toward Something Open, Inhabitable, An Approachable You, Perhaps, An Approachable Reality. Such Realities Are, I Think, At Stake In A Poem.

Rush Of Pine Scent (once Upon A Time), The Unlicensed Conviction There Ought To Be Another Way Of Saying This.

Only One Thing Remained Reachable, Close And Secure Amid All Losses: Language. Yes, Language. In Spite Of Everything, It Remained Secure Against Loss.

Death Is A Master From Germany.

They've Healed Me To Pieces.