All drawings untitled 2004
Narcissus
Narcissus perished. From his beauty rose
incessantly the nearness of his being,
like scent of heliotrope that clings and cloys.
But his one avocation was self-seeing.
Whatever left him he loved back again,
he whom the open wind could not contain;
rapt, closed the round of reciprocity,
annulled himself, and could no longer be.
Rilke
