The Two Heart-grey Puddles: Two Mouthsfull Of

Reality Is Not Simply There, It Does Not Simply Exist: It Must Be Sought Out And Won.

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.

Each Arrow You Shoot Off Carries Its Own Target Into The Decidedly Secret Tangle

There Was Earth Inside Them, And They Dug.

A Poem, As A Manifestation Of Language And Thus Essentially Dialogue, Can Be A Message In A Bottle, Sent Out In The –not Always Greatly Hopeful-belief That Somewhere And Sometime It Could Wash Up On Land, On Heartland Perhaps. Poems In This Sense Too Are Under Way: They Are Making Toward Something. Toward What? Toward Something Standing Open, Occupiable, Perhaps Toward An Addressable Thou, Toward An Addressable Reality.