And Has Sinned Mcmlxviii Poem by Terry Collett

The short monk
in black robes
limped up the aisle
of the church
like one half
of a comedy act
at the end of a pier,

I later learned
he was a theologian
and at work
on a book
on the benedicta trinitas,

sunlight in between arches
in the cloister
shadows elsewhere
and a monk stood
gazing into the sunlight
arms inside
his long sleeves,

hoc est corpus meum
Christ said
at the Last Supper
the institution
of the later Mass
fai questo in memoria di me,

c'est mon sang
shed for you
He said
drink from it
the tall monk
raised the cup
then slipped from it,

flowers
in the flower beds
around the outside
of the cloister
in the garth,

I weeded here
the bell ringing
each quarter
la voix de dieu
the French monk said,

I stood in the semi dark
during the office
of Compline
the voices chanting
plainsong
il mio cuore è colpito
dalla sua bellezza,

my heart
is also struck
by the beauty
of the incense
during Mass
parfum de dieu,

the raised host
between the fingers
of the monk
with Parkinson's disease
shaking as if caught
by an invisible wind,

I stood like one
who had misunderstood
and had sinned.