Between Worlds.
Posted: January 29th, 2015, 8:50 am
He pushes
an old wheel barrow,
the French monk,
loaded with manure,
fork sticking out
at the front end;
he walks along
the track
by the abbey,
head down,
thinking of Christ,
no doubt ,
and His
loaded cross.
I polish
the choir stall wood
with a yellow dust cloth
and orange
polish-muck;
she let me lay
my head
between her thighs,
murmuring sighs.
The old monk,
lays out the altar,
prepares things
for the high mass
that morning
with the seriousness
of a sad mourner.
an old wheel barrow,
the French monk,
loaded with manure,
fork sticking out
at the front end;
he walks along
the track
by the abbey,
head down,
thinking of Christ,
no doubt ,
and His
loaded cross.
I polish
the choir stall wood
with a yellow dust cloth
and orange
polish-muck;
she let me lay
my head
between her thighs,
murmuring sighs.
The old monk,
lays out the altar,
prepares things
for the high mass
that morning
with the seriousness
of a sad mourner.
