Death is a master from Germany.

rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this.

How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life.

With a changing key, you unlock the house where the snow of what’s silenced drifts. Just like the blood that bursts from Your eye or mouth or ear, so your key changes. Changing your key changes the word That may drift with flakes. Just like the wind that rebuffs you, Clenched round your word is the snow.

Death is a master from Germany.

German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry.... Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts "beauty." It tries to be truthful.

The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere.