Though the Spaniard finds
in San Juan Batista's effigies his satisfaction
without knowing why,
we seek out the mystery: to learn
and how much,
for even the bicycle
on the white wall may be a glyph
to care
anq mflgical.
But my heart
beats slower than the lizard's,
the dead to rise up
weeping
our own tears to bewilder us.
Molly
Peacock
making
LIVING WITHOUT MEANING
The grandmother I loved is dead.
The grandfathers I was wary of are dead.
The grandmother whose ways I eyed is dead.
My father is dead.
I could never tell them how much I minded
that they lived in an unguided world that became mine,
and when I left it to live within my mind,
I had to leave reality behind
as they left behind their lives.
They seemed to die in the ways they secretly lived:
restlessly, angrily, warily in secret. On I lived,
larger, though hollowed, alive
