Hymn

The face of Christ appears inside my latte

art, live-fed to legions of follo-ollowers,

and everyone sings it back with one another

in one or another form, like a silent disco

where everybody’s song’s a different song

but, miraculously, at the same BPM.

Howdy, sports-star, what’s among the muck

today, you who make a music of mud?

A puddle couples canopies of planets 

with fields. Looking down, I clock the universe.

You cap a promise with a tackle (the ground

performs a version of us in waves on impact),

asking “Who is Adam Heardman, and when

is he at home? Hello? Is anybody where?”