You're Rowing By Wordlight

Reachable, Near And Not Lost, There Remained In The Midst Of The Losses This One Thing: Language. It, The Language, Remained, Not Lost, Yes, In Spite Of Everything. But It Had To Pass Through Its Own Answerlessness, Pass Through Frightful Muting, Pass Through The Thousand Darknesses Of Deathbringing Speech. It Passed Through And Gave Back No Words For That Which Happened; Yet It Passed Through This Happening. Passed Through And Could Come To Light Again, “enriched” By All This.

Rush Of Pine Scent (once Upon A Time), The Unlicensed Conviction There Ought To Be Another Way Of Saying This.

Black Milk Of Daybreak We Drink It At Sundown.

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

Only Truthful Hands Write True Poems. I Cannot See Any Basic Difference Between A Handshake And A Poem.