As they died, ancient martyrs

let fall their heads, distinct,

and a crucifix, from fingers

released: that which they held

close clutched until their blood

leapt against gravity to God.

From our fingers, what falls,

when we new faithful fall?

Splintered, atomic, bereft of

unified field or faith:

some drop dollars, others rings.

I drop nothing. The vacuum

of space my faith's dark emblem.