THE LAST SUPPER
When the sun sets
I will peer through the slats in my blinds.
I will look for death,
that big moon that hides all day long.
Behind the sun
no one can seek and swallow it but at dusk
I will come with all my starvation
and turn it to bone-white ambrosia.
The feast will begin.
I'll invite all of my gods.
Jesus can sit next to the television.
We'll eat the moon in contemplation
and wonder why the sun isn't shining
and why our tongues taste only dirt.
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