The youngest monk-
holding the holy water sprinkler-
walks beside the abbot

down the aisle
between the choir stalls;
the other monks

bow their heads-
the semi-dark
of the church lit up

by moonlight through
the large windows
on either side.

I polish the floor
of the refectory
with a cloth on

a broom head,
smoothing out
the polish laid-

I think of her-
laying there
on the bed,

hands behind her head,
her Eve's garden visible
and laid bare;

I polish hard
not being there.
The old Belgium monk

listens to the bell
for Compline,
his hand behind his ear,

ready to capture
like a fisherman's net
when sounds are near.