At last, the little notebook has run dry. I do not know my body from any other
body. Because God is perfect, He cannot heal. I believe in the smallest tautologies:
their exquisite gem-like facets cover me in the dark, like a lantern lowered deep
into an ancient well. Because God is perfect, He crosses every border with ease.
His paintings hang in the parliaments. When He visits them, whole nations rise up
in violence. Space is curved a little more when we take off our extra clothing, the
gloves and masks. Even kings believe in the blood’s minute geometry. I was not a
noble traveler; I carried my dead upon my back where God could taste them, like
honey. Because God is perfect, He believes in kings. Watch Him carry the key to
the cliff’s blind edge. A shewbread grew inside me in secret, a cached silence, a
platinum.