You're Rowing By Wordlight

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

The Poem Is Lonely. It Is Lonely And En Route. Its Author Stays With It. Does This Very Fact Not Place The Poem Already Here, At Its Inception, In The Encounter, In The Mystery Of Encounter?

I Went With My Very Being Toward Language.

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

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