Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.
no one bears witness for the witness
Tall poplars--human beings of this earth!
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?
Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.