Death Is A Master From

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.

Spring: Trees Flying Up To Their Birds

With Wine And Being Lost, With Less And Less Of Both: I Rode Through The Snow, Do You Read Me I Rode God Far--i Rode God Near, He Sang, It Was Our Last Ride Over The Hurdled Humans. They Cowered When They Heard Us Overhead, They Wrote, They Lied Our Neighing Into One Of Their Image-ridden Languages.

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

You're Rowing By Wordlight