Rising inward, my prosthetic
dream
bled out onto your snow-covered bed.
Pink with iron and welcome limestone, met
in karsts of prescient somnolence.
(red and white at their very best)
That which dreamed itself your bedsheet
they would say a Saxon field.
Your naked feet, embedded, pink upon the
snow, yet
drawing up into your mouth.
(a liturgy of ancient wisdom songs)
Bloodless blood and Brahmsless Brahms,
"In whose honor, sacramental chef?"
Pale white bones in oaken chapels, set
about the silk and garnet implements.
(for those who would so eat their God)
paused, unspoken, in a shrinking sky.
As I cut the Donar Oak you bade me, "Let
them be as though their See shall free them.
(We can sing the verses of the night)"
