This one is also out of season

On a Theme from T. S. Eliot
a villanelle

The bloody flesh our only food,
the dripping blood our only drink,
and yet we call this Friday good.

We fast, but inwardly are fed;
We feast on flesh (Come, have a chunk),
the bloody flesh our only food.

Nails wait to nail a hanging God,
while plank is nailed crosswise to plank,
and yet we call this Friday good.

From the perpendicular bed
of nails we carve fresh flesh—we think
the bloody flesh our only food,

and we think right.  Our God is dead.
His flesh is old and cold and rank,
and yet we call this Friday good.

Perhaps at last we've understood
the dripping blood (our only drink),
the bloody flesh (our only food)—
and yet we call this Friday good.