rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this.

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

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

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

I went with my very being toward language.

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.

Death is a master from Germany.