The well-spoken
English monk
sits

in the porter's lodge
reading his breviary;
he turns the pages

with a thin
white finger.
I watched the ships

passing by
the window
of the abbey latrines,

the moonlight
on the water;
I recall how her lips

bit into me;
her arms
enfolded me

like a Black Widow spider.
Dom Pierre sits
in the refectory,

head to one side,
his eyes staring
into the blue

(or was it an empty black)
as if God
was staring back.