His sight, still dizzy with early death,
can't take it in. But her gaze
frightens an owl from behind the pschent. And the bird,
brushing, in slow neat-quitting, along the cheek,
the one with the ripest curve,
faintly inscribes on the new
death-born hearing, as though on the double
page of an opened book, the indescribable outline.
-Rilke