Couple with Their Heads Full of Clouds after Dali Say table, and I’ll say bread. Say cup and I’ll say wine and spoon. The communion of saints. Incline your head to me. The forgiveness of sins. Love’s summit. Even an ocean and all its water, its etched waves, a distant second. The resurrection of the body. Gather together at the day’s last meal. Climb to the mount of the disheveled tablecloth. The life everlasting. Clear the dishes, sweep the crumbs to the ground with the side of your hand. It was a field before it was a battlefield for Luke It was a green before a fiddler stood on it, and made mirth, and never stopped playing. It was grass. Or maybe a greenwood. Maybe underbrush, thick at your knees. Unparsable. We have each taken something that belonged to itself first, something that was once a wide and open green. What turns red in spring before it greens? The redbud trees along the highway. Also the human heart. Each glows lamp-like on the road to church. Virginia rolls with fields and when I say: it was a field before it was a battlefield, you say: “And after.” Yes, and after.