The next communion I arrange I plan to smear
grape juice on the inside of a railway.
I leave a drooping oblong puddle hosting
glass sun funeral where cheek to grain
I pay my dues to pall and radiant sobriety.

Greased in adolescent mortar I force nickels
into telescopes calibrating
Restaurant booths to sugar trays
I wish you wouldn’t call me heroic.

Terrycloth slick he’s been using my towel
Nursed spheres and octaves the dirty rain
Leads me to conceal my toothbrush

Which is how I ended up swallowing your key