The French monk
scythes the tall grass
on the long drive
to the monk’s abbey;

there is a humbleness
about him
like inexpensive
wine.

I sweep
the refectory floor;
her legs were short,
down-like hair

was there,
I ran my fingers up
seeking her secret cup.
The monk in the kitchen

smiles and shows
his few teeth,
wrinkles explode
about his eyes,

I see the morning sunlight,
as if that,
was where
the sun lies.