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

Poetry is a sort of homecoming.

Death is a master from Germany.

Spring: trees flying up to their birds

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.

German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry.... Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts "beauty." It tries to be truthful.

They've healed me to pieces.