You're Rowing By Wordlight

A Nothing We Were, Are, Shall Remain, Flowering: The Nothing--, The No One's Rose.

Death Is A Master From Germany.

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?

Don't Sign Your Name Between Worlds, Surmount The Manifold Of Meanings, Trust The Tearstain, Learn To Live.

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