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.