Dear old self:
        You said: He'll give you a stone.
        He says: I am the bread.

                 Try to deny 
that your aim and sprung arrow can curve past the greatest Greek find. 
Certain incensed pulsations even in today's New England granite 
still lift 
when That Man in the dregs of Grail 
climbs out from Joe Arimathea's cave.

                 That stone 
is your mashed tone 
kneaded by a Child spilling water from our eyes 
forming marrow. 
And when with long iron nails 
you scratch out His blood with lies
He rises up as He said, 
cups that Blood from the cavern 
to paint all poppy and potters' fields red.

                                         All this time
we lay there, stepped on,
but only body-dead.
He splits our moans apart
pouring our tears around,
and when She comes and asks:
                          What are you doing?
He says:  Don't you know
I've got to be about all this dizziness?

       He places our bone bucket
       in a crock
       and dries up our cowering there.
       We start to drum-m drum-m,
       and we do
       carry the key to every ring,
       with the King of pierced fleece
       bleating through.