November 6th 2021
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?”