Monastery

When you arrive, the sherpas abandon you
on a dark gash of rock - you must bend
low to pass under the entrance
as if greeting an old friend

and a man with olives for eyes
(the white a bone china splinter)
leads you through herb gardens
in the Polish winter

The master and I come to meet you
when you've laid your clothes on your bed
I wash your feet in warmed rainwater,
fetch honeywine and bread

then we talk about what happened
between your knees and mine
in 1999