Death Is A Master From

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

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 Thread Where The Dew You Mused On Slid Down To Pitchers Tended 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

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.

Who Is Invisible Enough To See You

There Was Earth Inside Them, And They Dug.