AFTER TERCE MUSING

A NOVICE AND MONKS IN AN ABBEY IN 1971

The office of Terce
is over, the old monk
hobbles from church

to cloister. The morning
frost sharp on the grass,
cat's teeth sharp, he

passes gazing the garth
with tired eyes. I close
the breviary, the black

covers smooth and cold
in my young man's hands.
Batel unbuttoned my jeans,

her invasive thin fingers
seeking the snake in the
dark grass. Dom Peter

arranges the surplice for
a private Mass, green and
white, the smell of incense

lingering. My lips kiss the
black leather of the book.
Batel gave me once that

sexual come get me look.