Going down to the river in ivory robes
seeking sacraments
and the white heat of some amazing grace.
The Ghost is circling the congregation
amid an orgy of Cherubim
fresh from the sight of God.
There is hunger for the flesh and blood
and any innocent will do.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Oh, man, this is so short, but so pointed, sort of like a dagger stabbing at the mythos of communion. I really enjoy this poem.