Kyrie.

Kyrie. Your heart (yardbird) beats like the drumming of a grousein deep cover, the flush and flurry of bobwhitein brush, you wonder how you ignored its pounding before,at the back of your eyes down the cording of your neckaround the bell of your shoulders a warmth is running,rinsing (unhinging) elbow and wrist, undoing hand and foot.Each breath, every impulse to breathe leaves your lungsempty, your throat is like kindling, a sluicewhere the air sparks like tinder, like grain in a mill chutethe words stick to the roof of your mouth,the bony palate above the teeth, your lips part to speakand you hear the syllables break, soundswithout meaning, shards and splinters of speech.What kind of prayer is this prayer you can't say.