You are cold, but you expect kindness.
What you do comes back in the same form.
God is compassionate, but if you plant barley,
don’t expect to harvest wheat.

Wandering the high empty plain
for some indication you’ve been here,
I find an abandoned body,
a detached head.

Wine and stout,
one very old and the other new.
We will never have had enough.

Not being here and being completely here,
the mixture is not bitter.
It’s the taste we are.

Lying back in this presence,
no longer able to eat or drink,
I float freely
like a corpse in the ocean.