When your body unclothes us, and bloodies our nose, we eat and drink you

Has she
lost her bodily imagination?

Is the ache
between my lips
a true reaching
towards the meat?

This cannot be.
It is impossible.
I have done the will of God
and I must live forever.

Is it slurping inside the cunt of the whore
do we find the salvating
tongue of the son,

repeating the words “I will be,” over and over
If I am the bride—if I am the church—

—we just wait to be pursued—
If the oil pours always the harlot    the whore
Has she lost her five senses—

Well by my life she is lovely
by my grave she is justified—
(we are doing this always in a cheerful way)

Teacher do I make myself—
Updating my bed continuously?
Am I one true hand of communion?

When our words destruct themselves,
bury what I have learned—

both that the daughter from under
and my mouth will ride
into this world on a bull,

washed in low near the feet
—She is to be or not to be
peopled among words

dust finally wept totally free
waking up with nothing
to wake for
just going
out here skies
with no reason.