Tall poplars--human beings of this earth!

you're rowing by wordlight

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?

Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.

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