I went with my very being toward language.

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

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

He speaks truly who speaks the shade.

in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air

Illegibility of this world. All things twice over. The strong clocks justify the splitting hour, hoarsely. You , clamped into your deepest part, climb out of yourself for ever.

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?