All drawings untitled 2004
We're mouths, no more. Who sings the distant heart
that, whole and hale, inheres within all things?
Its mighty beat into small hammerings
in us has been spaced out. So, too, the smart,
the pain- too great for us, like its great joy.
So we tear loose from it repeatedly
and are mere mouth. But right into our fleeing
bursts that great heartbeat, unpredictable,
so that we yell-,
becoming visage, transformation, being.
Rilke
