He slurps his soup,
the Dutch monk;
the monk on the stall,

reads
from
the life

of Cromwell.
I see onions swim
in the thin soup;

she invited my hand
to Eve's garden,
to **** amongst

the growth there.
The abbot
beneath

the crucifix,
bites an apple,
juices seep

from his plump chin;
as did she
with me.