Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.

Death is a master from Germany.

no one bears witness for the witness

you're rowing by wordlight

Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle

I went with my very being toward language.

We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.'