POETRY

WRITING ON THE BONES

I found a man writing on his bones,

and I who have never seen God

know that the man looks like a God.

 

There was something in his expression

same as the norm or the odor of suicide,

an abyss or silence

that divides the universe into two precise and nocturnal parts.

 

He was writing on his bones

as on the sand of a beach burrowed into from above

and with the integrity of an eye

that could keep its thought inside itself.

 

 

But I could not look over his shoulder

to see what he was writing

because he was writing on his shoulders too.

2 thoughts on “WRITING ON THE BONES”

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