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.
-Annie Dillard, Tickets for a Prayer Wheel