BELL CALL 1971

MONKS AND A NOVICE IN AN ABBEY IN 1971

The young monk
rang the cloister bell.

The tolling brought
other monks into being,
down stairs,
from rooms,
from gardens,
from the kitchen
preparing meals.

I emptied the bucket
of dirty water
down the drain
and left the bucket
by the wall.

The  young monk
wiped his hands
on his black serge robe,
hid them in
his habit
out of sight.

She kissed me,
fingering me,
whispering words,
dark and flighty
as large black birds.

The old monk dies
in his bed,
his angels and demons
around his sparse bed.