What We Worship Guides Our Thirst... Poem by Mark Heathcote

Only he God can charge or judge
The ink, that pores-out its blood.
That algae-spore" of each, dreams-drudge,
That made its way—out; from the crud.

"Only he who's skipped, between the stone-
Rocks of the alternant—current
Knows where each" lost breath, lays sewn.
All are archaic, indulgent.

"What we worship guides our thirst...
The mountain pastures, the glassy-glade.
The foot-pounding-city-streets, cloudburst:
Life's passing" promenade.