Each Arrow You Shoot Off

The Poem Is Lonely. It Is Lonely And En Route. Its Author Stays With It. Does This Very Fact Not Place The Poem Already Here, At Its Inception, In The Encounter, In The Mystery Of Encounter?

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.

How You Die Out In Me: Down To The Last Worn-out Knot Of Breath You're There, With A Splinter Of Life.

Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

The Language With Which I Make My Poems Has Nothing To Do With One Spoken Here, Or Anywhere.