We share here our eucharist.
Our minds our churches.
Our souls the light
our fingers scorches.
We come to warm wintered skins,
Made raw by winter’s flaw.
We drink the earth’s own juices
To toast the broken Christ
And mutter together melodies
of crisp seditions,
And reheat rebellions
By wood-fire pulses.
We gospel and graffiti,
Make hieroglyphics with fingerpaints
Scarring our names
On the still wet walls
Of Psyche’s cave.
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