Here in the maze of the fourth floor carrels,
the Newberry Library fellows, monks
of modern day, copy into laptops
the mute treasures they find in volumes brought
by clerks who appear and disappear,
their footsteps muffled by thick ribbed carpet.
As in the cloisters, no one speaks, and when
these monks pass in the narrow corridors
they say nothing to each other -- aloud,
with eyes, raised hand or slightest nod of head.
Still, they communicate from cell to cell.
No great “
but in the padded nooks not far from me
one coughs; one sneezes; one blows her nose;
another clears his throat; and someone farts.
Oh, holy Benedict! was it the same
through the ages in Monte Cassino?
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