Sourdough,
good ham,
codeine.
 
A sandwich,
a sip or two…
tang on tongue;
then, relief in head.

Hanging 
in a hammock, at rest,
reluctant
to let go all my awareness
and slip under the
surface, but
I say it’s time
and vanish into
flavor, music,
thought, 
worship.

Yes,
worship:
why do you care how I get to my God?
How is my path more false than yours? 
I also break bread, sip syrup, am redeemed.
The only difference
is in the distance
to my Paradise.