Poets At Church

I know how it came to be:
The Pastor’s hand missed.

When holy wafer fell to the ground
And communal goblet of blood clattered
Ambrosial cascaded down the altar
And they drank from it like wild men

The benches of powdered lips were silent
Painted eyebrows dancing quizzically
‘It’s blood! Not wine!’ said boring eyes
Blood is wine is water defies

But something was fed
As maternal as milk
As sweet as bursts of honey

Maybe they fed by hand of Midas
Quixotic shaky invisible
Turning everything into gold
And consecrating life