Water, you would say to me, is God
and kneel to touch your lips to water and water
softened soil and with your ever thirst
suck deep within you the body and the blood
of the only holy you could will your love—
I have never had Another and will not.
Though I sup at the white table with its foetor
of sorrow and crosses, its death of God,
though I lip sterile sips from cups,
though injuries bloom like roses in the palms
of my hands and I burn under the forty furies
I have, under the emptiness of so
much blue with its scattered wisps of hope, found
no other Hallow but the dumb murmuring prayer
of soil effervescing reverence and
the resurrection of mists rising.