The hand opens to the word, opens to distance.
Always in a foreign country, the poet uses poetry as an interpreter.
What is not grasped has all the chances to become real.
Wound me . . . I can only feed on my humiliated blood.
How could an argument soothe or settle a controversy when every word is a nest for a bird of doubt? (meaning of words as inferences)
One wound is enough to feed the open wounds of the sky.