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.

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.

He speaks truly who speaks the shade.

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.

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

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