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.
Speak you too, speak as the last, say out your say. Speak- But donβt split off No from Yes. Give your say this meaning too: Give it the shadow. Give it shadow enough, Give it as much As you know is spread round you from Midnight to midday and midnight. Look around: See how things all come alive- By death! Alive! Speaks true who speaks shadow. But now the place shrinks, where you stand: Where now, shadow-stripped, where? Climb. Grope upwards. Thinner you grow, less knowable, finer! Finer: a thread The star wants to descend on: So as to swim down beliow, down here Where it sees itself shimmer:in the swell Of wandering words.
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.
Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.
How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life.
rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this.
Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle
