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

Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.

The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone.

Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself.

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

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?

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.