He is a priest;
He feeds the dead;
He sings the feast;
He veils his head;
The words are dread
In morning mist,
But the wine is red
In the Eucharist.

Red as the east
With sunlight spread
Like a bleeding beast
On a purple bed.
O Someone fled
From an April tryst,
Were your lips fed
In the Eucharist?

I, at least,
When the voice of lead
Sank down and ceased,
Knew the things he said.
That the god who bled,
And the god we kissed,
Shall never wed
In the Eucharist.

Spring, give the bread
We sought and missed,