Our penance is measured
in mornings made to wait;

furrowed brows bathed in
relief bleeding from pores.

In this dance of coloured light
and pitch, lit wicks, set back

in sweat-flecked faces, flicker
with pleasure and pain, near-buckled

knees carry us to the crest of each
sonic wave this tune is sick someone

and everyone says, breath held before
the bass drops like a cliff-top-melancholic

resigned to rocks. We deify beats now,
bent in penitence, arms outstretched

in this holy of holies, where all is a rush
to find space to make our offering[s].