American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Poetry

T. R. Hummer

There is a song the body sings to itself
     about time’s arrow, that has pierced
Its sentimental shining heart: about the eternal
     flow of fire over the medulla oblongata,
And the oceanic backwash of lymph
     in the cells’ interstices. Call that song an angel.
Call it space. The body sings, and does not know
     or care about the corrosive dark matter
Sealed in burial urns. The body sings, and when it stops
     for breath, nothing sings back its harmony.

— T. R. Hummer, “Maria Ranier Rilke, 1875-1926,” Urn: Poems (Diode Editions, 2014)

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