Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Annie Dillard on Touch and Heaven

From Feast Days (III)

I love with my hand, not my heart.
When I draw your face
my fingers trace your lips.
Crossing a page, my hand keeps
contours; I know that art
is edges.
I touch when I type.
With every finger's tip
I travel the weave of the given.
Hand me a pencil,
cut off my head,
and I will draw you heaven.

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