With a changing key, you unlock the house where the snow of what’s silenced drifts. Just like the blood that bursts from Your eye or mouth or ear, so your key changes. Changing your key changes the word That may drift with flakes. Just like the wind that rebuffs you, Clenched round your word is the snow.

I went with my very being toward language.

Poetry is a sort of homecoming.

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.

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.

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

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