With a changing key, you unlock the house where the snow of what’s silenced drifts. Just like the blood that bursts from Your eye or mouth or ear, so….

Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself..

He speaks truly who speaks the shade..

you're rowing by wordlight.

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 th….

Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem..

Illegibility of this world. All things twice over. The strong clocks justify the splitting hour, hoarsely. You , clamped into your deepest part, clim….

There was earth inside them, and they dug..

A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the-surely not always stron….

Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live..

The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere..

I went with my very being toward language..

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 perhaps this: an Atemwende, a turning of our breath. Who knows, perhaps poetry goes its way—the way of art—for the sake of just such a turn….

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….

in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air.