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.