Listening for this voice you say you heard -
Understood once in sleep, or a shadow burned
Neuron deep - loose, floating, uncollected -
You connected to the beat
Funneled from toll to span
blinded by oncoming.
And now I call it a sacrament:
An incantation, a swing of the censer,
A rush of holy water into a glass.
I say: The ale is at my right hand,
We sat thigh-to-thigh in our spider hole,
and elbow-to-elbow took our drink.
We laughed and whispered in our spider hole,
blinds drawn, walls pale and indistinct.