Dear worshipful strangers, assembled,
at a respectful distance. Please take a knee or both.
Meditate on the green of the grass while you wait
your turn to worship a stranger hand-picked for you.
When you move forward or sideways, do so reverently as befits
the need to reflect on your supreme act
of self-effacement, on the pact between arrogance and humility.
Advise your knees to stop moving, but make sure your trunk
continues to advance. You know what that means.
Your ass must be pushed high into the air close
as it can get to the moon. But don’t be embarrassed
by such vulnerability:
Your body is assuming its most honest position
and meaning will slowly reveal itself.
Kevin Hinkle of Asbury Park, New Jersey, USA is a photo-based digital artist and poet whose work has been published in literary journals such as SurVision (Ireland), The Naugatuck River Review, The Tishman Review, The Baltimore Review, Tupelo Quarterly, The Tulane Review, Grey Sparrow, The Pedestal Magazine and Utter. His chapbook, A Few Bruises Better has been accepted for publication by Finishing Line Press.