I cannot for the life of me
Bend up to eat at the hand of God:
No more than grain rushes skyward
From chaff fields and seed
Or the wine pours itself.

But I’ll pass the cake
And eat of it, too, if he passes
It my way. I’ll say:
“Too short and not enough
Leavening. Don’t you think,
My Lord Jesus Christ?”

He will wink at me, buzzing
With Spirit and crumbs on his
Lips. “Needs salt,” he’d confess,
“But next time, next time.
When I come again.”