A SACRAMENT

No salt is left in me.

My ash

Is wayward birds.

I have tapped

The well

Over and over with need.

Showers drought us

And the sweet feed

Makes the bulls gaunt.

I have the pill

We can all take

To slake the suffer

Into plastic,

Yet this makes us all

Corpses.

How about this:

I give you my seeds;

You give me your flowers,

And then

As comets fall,

We sit, calm

And try to trust each other.