The supper
Every night,
the Father, the Son, and the Spirit
rent a room at the edge of the station,
and ask for
red wine
and dry bread.
The waiter wears
a tired clown mask,
but his hands glow
from within
like sacred relics.
Their dialogue is a rain of nails
that pins the walls of shadows.
I am the silent guest,
the one who drinks the water left in the glasses,
believing it to be
divine mercy itself.
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