I would not bind the Word of God in pages,
but let it scrawl itself haphazardly
across the faces of the aged, aching
men whose lives were sacrificed to toil.
I’d let the creases on their skin spell out
each verse. And I would let the Word inscribe
itself on rocks whose crevices had drunk
too deeply of the rain, and, freezing, had
swollen, fracturing the rigid stone.
The alphabet of God is one of endings,
for any god who would dare to create
must first destroy; each moment kills the one
that came before it. Every birth contains
the atoms of a thousand prior deaths.