Thinking like a maker’s marble man,
His torso gleamed at us without a face.
You can always think through a torso,
However archaic it may be or ancient.
Feeling Rilke died by a beautiful rose.
What poetic death,stone Apollo feels,
In the torso that gazed at us facelessly.
It was light from the rippled muscles.
Apollo lost a face but not dark center
Where procreation flared for beauty
And for love at the center of his body
With not a place that does not see you.
( reading Rilke’s beautiful poem The Archaic Torso of Apollo)