You breathe upon us nowthrough solid assertionsof yourself: teaspoons, goblets,seas of carpet, a forestof old plants to be wateredan old man in an adjoiningroom to be touched and fed.And all this universedares us to lay a fingeranywhere, save exactlyas you would wish it done.

The dead” we say   as if speakingof “the people” whogave up on making historysimply to get throughSomething dense and null   groanwithout echo   undergroundand owl-voiced I cry Whoare these dead people theselovers who if ever didlisten no longer answer: We :

Poetry is, among other things, a criticism of language.

The I you know isn’t me, you said, truthtelling liarMy roots are not my chainsAnd I to you:   Whose hands have grownthrough mine?   Owl-voiced I cried then:   Who?But yours was the one, the only eye assumedDid we turn each other into liars?holding hands with each others’ chains?

When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.

To do something very common, in my own way.

I came to explore the wreck. / The words are purposes. / The words are maps. / I came to see the damage that was done / and the treasures that prevail.

A language is a map of our failures

Poems are like dreams: in them you put what you don't know you know.