I begin, as ever, with the body,that difficult psalter,something being drawn from me—not confessed, not forgiven—but rinsed awaywith the indifferent mercy of raincleaning a city that does not repent.I wake already mid-exodus.The body has signed no creed.Still, it knows when the garment of weatherno longer consents to its shoulders,when light alters its handupon the ribs.First,…