Bread of Ice
Do I not bleed money?
Are not my five wounds five decimal points?
Is not my crown a woven star of diamond?
Am I not scourged with your defaults?
Do I not bear a heavy cross of gold?
Does not my cup run over with petroleum?
Is not the spirit I breathe out the gas
Of the desert tombs?
This is my money
Which will not be given up for you;
This is my blood
Which is too crystalline to flow
At the table of my sacrifice
The bread, which melts before you eat, is baked of ice
Pavel
June 4, 2011
“Bread of Ice,” a reading: http://www.pavelreads.com/ [1]