I cannot bread-crumb my way
Out of this. For bread is also
Pain, pan, panes:
Gnawing at the tinted glass like acid
Rain, my eyes would ache
From the sight of peasant-angels,
Their pipe-songs fleeting
In the narrowing air. I would hear
The hammer,
Rage-white against the blushing
Anvil: I am the smith of chaos,
Forging it like distance into coins
To pay the ferry-woman
For our pilgrimage back along
The river, watching the loss of our
Communion morph into the water and
Loom around our boat
To clutch our oars: dead
Doves, sparrows, vultures –
Would feast on my pain, my
Peace, my slowly shattering
Communion with the light…

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