The Two Heart-grey Puddles: Two Mouthsfull Of

With A Changing Key, You Unlock The House Where The Snow Of What’s Silenced Drifts. Just Like The Blood That Bursts From Your Eye Or Mouth Or Ear, So Your Key Changes. Changing Your Key Changes The Word That May Drift With Flakes. Just Like The Wind That Rebuffs You, Clenched Round Your Word Is The Snow.

Only One Thing Remained Reachable, Close And Secure Amid All Losses: Language. Yes, Language. In Spite Of Everything, It Remained Secure Against Loss.

In The Air, There Your Root Remains, There, In The Air

German Poetry Is Going In A Very Different Direction From French Poetry.... Its Language Has Become More Sober, More Factual. It Distrusts "beauty." It Tries To Be Truthful.

Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.