CANONICAL HOUR: SEXT
(they’re drowning) & we toss them bricks to the beat
of the music cradling them to sink.
their bones are sheets of shale & soft as water—
held together like a sediment altar.
hope is a sixteen digit number,
is maybe yoga will bring answers
or will at least show you how to ﬁnd them inside yourself
(they are all inside yourself). or perhaps,
it is your name
in stranger’s prayers and Spirit’s,
& sound’s travel time from mouth to ear.
it is each brazen letter aﬂame,
branded into the eyelids
of His cross-seared body.