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)