The tall monk
with the large keys;
his way of opening up

the door to the church
as if moving the stone
from the tomb of Christ,

the key having done its job
is placed back
in his black habit pocket.

I polish the choir stalls
with duster
and an old tin

of polish;
I recall her lips
******* me

to a heaven.
The squat monk
pulled weeds

from the side bed,
the sun on his
bent tonsure head.