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

you're rowing by wordlight

There was earth inside them, and they dug.

The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere.

We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.'

Spring: trees flying up to their birds

no one bears witness for the witness