“station of the cross”

it is finished. but the smell of cordite
and fear linger long after their anger
rent the night’s sky. 3 of 42: birds
roosting deep within his warmth, resting
his head. he was sitting at the bus stop,
finishing a simple meal, while fitting
the ubiquitous description. betrayed
by his Blackness, like so many
pieces of silver. see this holy tableaux:
arms outstretched, head bent at awkward
angles. empty eyes track his spirit
through the plastic dome—its sides
punctured by the other 39
and ricochets from chipped concrete.
a canopy of stars cloistered in stained glass,
back-splashed by blood.