REAL COMMUNION

Today, bread will just be bread,
nothing more, no symbolic flight;
there will be texture on  the tongue,
the hard edge of a bite
and the brief, convulsive claim
of swallowing.

Today, wine will just be wine,
nothing more, no hint of a liquid
sacrificial force; there will be rich
fruit notes and languid subtle warmth;
surrender realized
physically.

LOOKING FOR RHYTHM / FINDING SPEED

I walked around all day
looking for the rhythm;
tossed up old memories,
like dust heavy rugs,
but there was only
small change underneath.
I ate lunch early.
There was bugger all to eat.
The tomatoes didn't help.
The toast offered
that subtle consolation
of perfect melted butter
on the tongue.
Greasy pleased, but uninspired,
I exercised,
hoping the rhythm of feet
pumping pedals to a height
might excite some creativity.
There was none of that
so I free-wheeled down
the other side
like a drunken lunatic:
forty four years old
and fuck the consequences.