Alms

At the threshold here
of grey waste of rocky maws
joined, open to our stirrings
on the land made arable
to the touch, profuse

in golden bulls of dawn
their stark high horns
their formed flank billowing
each leg a pillar of smoke.

And their flesh cries out
its wails our offering
that silence denied
wrapped and not charring

but melting
as do the sounds in heat
dangling over this taut room;
I, your supplicant.