Eulogia at Abendmahl

The only sane person in the room,
you spat upon the holy
bread, abandoning the work
of the sun and its agents.

With our appetizer out of the way,
the waiter offered to take our order.
“A Thinking Hospital for me, and
the Lord will have a Razor and Twine.”

As he backed his way into the kitchen,
I thought of when I hiked across
the deserts of Pangaea, expecting
to be eaten; and how the universe

is one blind, insatiable chemical
reaction, the formula of which
is hunger; and why some snake
devoured its own tail or pale-skinned

humans ate the New World whole.

As my attention returned to our moment,
you had received and cut your twine, making
little nooses for the patients in my hospital.
I suggested that, perhaps, we should say grace,

but that was just my lost argot
getting the better of me again.