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

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.

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

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

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

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?

in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air