At first, give thanks, for He makes all things new,

Then clean your fruit for rot shall spoil the soul,

                                                                                       Break gently as grace these roots of wrath,

and watch for Time who feasts on tender flesh.

Do not dwell on the price you paid for life

when food is set, for regret makes the stew run cold.

Remember who you were when fullness

was empty rooms where witches went to purge,

the flesh of mango child, the heart of a lost sheep,

Bring down the yams of labour now,

                                                                                                 Let sweetness draw the juice of lust, 

And grind the grain of ghostly past,

                                                                                                     As spinach heeds to tears of brine,

Like ichor at the starved altar,

give with desert what your body has borne.

There is wilderness within so wet and blue with night,

Where gods with golden claws may hunt 

and demons dance beneath the virgin moon,


time was lost and you shall find me, 


                                                                      Cobalt fruit, golden seed, you wept as you consumed,

There exists,

a place where you fill up the deeper dark,

With noise, and slick, and breath come apart,

                                                                                                                                And it was good,

For you have claimed it so.

The bruised skin from which you bite, 

the forked creature that stalks in pale light,

                                                                                            Give thanks, for this was made for you.