Only One Thing Remained Reachable,

Rush Of Pine Scent (once Upon A Time), The Unlicensed Conviction There Ought To Be Another Way Of Saying This.

Spring: Trees Flying Up To Their Birds

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

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.

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