How You Die Out In Me: Down

Spring: Trees Flying Up To Their Birds

The Language With Which I Make My Poems Has Nothing To Do With One Spoken Here, Or Anywhere.

Death Is A Master From Germany.

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.