Body be thy name as prayer made flesh. As prayer marry flesh. Flesh-prayer reaped in daily chronicles of sunlight, flesh exhales us into hospitable swaths and regions of dark, flesh as the ultimate wheelbarrow, sturdy and stable. Until it is not. Tissue withers and disintegrates. Organs go to pot. Flesh becomes homemade religion in ruins, yet remaining sacred in its dismissal and erosion. Process is change. Is the set of keys you are always being given whether you take them or not. Once accepted, these become the keys to the kingdom. Flesh cries out in wolfish hunger for other flesh, for additional flesh in which to bury, mantle, and merge. Flesh cries out like a newborn with high noon sun peppering its skin, as it toddles dumbly through the world with placeless wonder at its core. Flesh and body be thy conjoined name and signature, a prayer made animate for a limited breadth of time.