“Spring: trees flying up to their birds”

“water needlesstitch up the splitshadow-he fights his waydeeper down, free.”

“Count up the almonds,Count what was bitter and kept you waking,Count me in too:I sought your eye when you glanced up and no one would see you,I spun that secret threadWhere the dew you mused onSlid down to pitchersTended by a word that reached no one’s heart.There you first fully entered the name that is yours, you stepped to yourself on steady feet,the hammers swung free in the belfry of your silence,things overheard thrust through to you,what’s dead put it’s arm around you too,and the three of you walked through the evening.Render me bitter.Number me among the almonds”

“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.”

“Autunm eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:then time returns to the shell.In the mirror it's Sunday,in dream there is room for sleeping,our mouths speak the truth.My eye moves down to the sex of my loved one:we look at each other,we exchange dark words,we love each other like poppy and recollection,we sleep like wine in the conches,like the sea in the moon's blood ray.We stand by the window embracing, and people look up fromthe street:it is time they knew!It is time the stone made an effort to flower,time unrest had a beating heart.It is time it were time.It is time.”

“Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends wir trinken und trinken ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng”

“EINMAL,da hörte ich ihnda wusch er de Welt,ungesehn, nactlang, wirklich.Eins und Unendlich,Vernichtet,Ichten.Licht war. Rettung.”