Two sides of my brain open up into arguing.
One wishes to save, the other- to watch die.
You are speaking to me in closed monologues.

Your ears, a vacant canal,
your eyes, instruments for measuring light,
do not receive me.
I am the communion, I am the host,
take me, feel me crumble
in your mouth, a bearer of wet words.
I am lying partway to the ground
and my palm is soft butter.
Isn’t everybody dead?

The colors move to black and white
and then suddenly everyone and their tuxedo
becomes grey.
I have watched them become shadows
but they do not notice
my smile holds the remnants
of a dull conversation
between God and myself
and myself.