Eucharist

The tuning fork, the present guide, the letter
And the question why, stretched like the divining rod
Under a boiling sky
To try for the deep riches of furrowing streams:

Or tell of Moses in the desert, when he struck the rock
Once and the hard resounding of metal,
Twice and the outpour of numinous
Streams, three times and the wrath of my God was upon him
Smoothing the sky into trembling clouds:
Shot bolts from the quiver, and struck him down
Not far from the river of Jordan, but stark across
From the promised land.

Who am I?
I promised it for Abraham like Jason -- the golden fleece --
With milk-whites of honey, and with the dripping of grapes, for juice;
But my nation trod on the husks, culled all their sweetness in wines,
And lay their naked rinds in the gold sun to dry;
Then some of them, mining out silver, ignored me in chalices
Of intricate work: here was Dionysus on the ridge, chaised
Acanthus running round the pillared bust, and fields of gleaming grass
That shivered in the cooling winds when freshly dark
Black ooze came down the cups. And others came to banquets,
And many came on maidens -- their honey skin was spoiled
By the thickly milk:

Here, Israel, is my providence! Here are your provinces of milk
And honey: a festival of hedonistic pleasures, carnivals of sin; and yet have there been
Always the sages who knew me, always long into the burning night,
The dripping of wax, the turning of parchments in stacks by the black
Of their white, ink-stained beards; some, muttering into cornered retreats,
Would raise their hollowed eyes to the moon, and with their infernal cries
Of antique wisdom and effectual lore would score
The plates of youth clean dry, curdle and mold
Until they were old, and then lying pious,
Flesh burdened with wrinkles
As much of the pumiced page as of age,
Mournfully, they would die.

No, Israel:
The world is filled with pedants and beggars and whores, bores each after each
Their particular monstrance, and a great remonstrance is in store
When the flesh becomes spirit again, when the meat becomes bread,
And my breath moves from general beings
To the mountains and streams that have moved them,
Each to their ends.