The black robed monk
walks from the woods
by the abbey

carrying two
dead rabbits,
their head lolling

by his leg.
I wash the pots
and pans

in the abbey kitchen
with soapy water;
I recall her

biting into my neck,
her hands investigating
my fellow,

her fingers
like bird's beaks
reaching for

a morning worm.
The French monk
sits in

the choir stall
in the abbey church
alone with his God

muttering in Latin
some recent sin.