Eucharist 

 

I had a dream last night about old Bill Yeats

Who lived for the heart in an age of knives,

Whose loves came apart like moth wings

Whose nation was cruel

When not boastful, then both, then dark,

So I was swept along by a shade

Who’d suffered much, who even so

Had found my sleeping head

And bending close

He opened his shirt—

Where his heart should have been

There was a hole—

“Believe this” he said,

“In remembrance of me.”