German Poetry Is Going In A Very

Who Is Invisible Enough To See You

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

He Speaks Truly Who Speaks The Shade.

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 Your Key Changes. Changing Your Key Changes The Word That May Drift With Flakes. Just Like The Wind That Rebuffs You, Clenched Round Your Word Is The Snow.

Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.