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

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

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

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.

Count up the almonds, Count what was bitter and kept you waking, Count me in too: I sought your eye when you glanced up and no one would see you, I spun that secret thread Where the dew you mused on Slid down to pitchers Tended by a word that reached no one’s heart. There you first fully entered the name that is yours, you stepped to yourself on steady feet, the hammers swung free in the belfry of your silence, things overheard thrust through to you, what’s dead put it’s arm around you too, and the three of you walked through the evening. Render me bitter. Number me among the almonds

you're rowing by wordlight