November 6th 2021

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?”

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