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

They've healed me to pieces.

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

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

Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.

Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.

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