He pushes
an old wheel barrow,
the French monk,

loaded with manure,
fork sticking out
at the front end;

he walks along
the track
by the abbey,

head down,
thinking of Christ,
no doubt ,

and His
loaded cross.
I polish

the choir stall wood
with a yellow dust cloth
and orange

polish-muck;
she let me lay
my head

between her thighs,
murmuring sighs.
The old monk,

lays out the altar,
prepares things
for the high mass

that morning
with the seriousness
of a sad mourner.