the great blood of saints
and stakes on which
they peppered
and brought to boil

dehydrated and pale
dehydrated like cured meat
whose hide became a drum
and like a drum
they have no memories

picking rocks out of their mouths
salting sidewalks
handing you the gum they chewed
all the saints revolting
like the cupping of your hand
it's the holy shape, the rhombus
erratic and dizzy
real prayer