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

How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life.

There's nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even he is a Jew and the language of his poems is German.

Spring: trees flying up to their birds

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

Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle

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?