setting the table
one cup times 26 or 39
each holds perhaps three thimblesfull of wine
set like jewels around an empty space
a veiled cipher, cradled in its tray
the blood of Christ is shed for us
and caught in a plastic shotglass
in the uncooled sacristy, the summer vine
turns dank in stale neglect; no one declines
dispensed the night before, cheap by the case
still consubstantiates to save by grace
no drop is wasted; when it's done
you funnel it into the bottle, or drink it down
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