A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the-surely not always strong-hope that it may somehow wash up somewhere, perhaps on the shoreline of the heart. In this way, too, poems are en route: they are headed towards. Toward what? Toward something open, inhabitable, an approachable you, perhaps, an approachable reality. Such realities are, I think, at stake in a poem.

Death is a master from Germany.

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

I went with my very being toward language.

They've healed me to pieces.

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

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