... We wander like breezes Among waxed-floored fluorescent-humming friezes, Me and Jesus and Joan of Arc. It’s Late – we catechize gray eggs and cheeses Casting out extra calories and magnesium For the making of omelets – oh, nothing pleases Martyrs like an omelet: it’s the breaking Of eggs that agrees with them. And the aisles are empty, bright and stark; it’s Hushed all through the midnight supermarket As lush, forgotten Elysium. And I'm tired, and Jesus is talking fast; he questions Onions, exhorts tomatoes - for him, martyr- dom, you know, is something more than a profession. - I look across where Joan is listening, testing Heart-shaped peppers, and can’t tell from expression If she remembers sacrifice is harder When you don’t know – it’s something Jesus couldn’t know now, become as he is (as Human as Zeus or Dionysus.) And I’m not scared to die or do my part or What they’d say – I'll be the seed that's threshed in That fiery immortal catechesis; Though when we get out in the warm, earthy dark, it Seems to me the whole damned Patriarchate’s Like cold, forgotten Elysium.