There’s A Monk In My Soup

I do not carry a Bible but I cup my hands 
in a River like an armless penitent-
to best the misfortunes 
that conspire against my moral Spine.
I wear glasses now, And type, type, type.
And There’s a Monk in my Soup,
Sinking into the broth of my Engine.
Coiled in the simmering
of my liquid perspective
bejeweled in waves.