The lizard’s heart throbs
faster than mine through his
green spots.
With
prehistoric
claws he seeks his shelter
in the shadow of the vine,
his
head
to one side in watchfulness.
Measure it:
observe the suspense. He is
anchored to it—the fear of
danger—& we are
anchored to nothing.
Though
the Spaniard finds
in San Juan Bautista’s effigies his
satisfaction
without knowing why,
we seek out the mystery: to learn
to
care
and how much,
for even the bicycle
on the white wall may be a glyph
and magical
But
my heart
beats slower than the lizard’s,
making
the dead to rise up
weeping
our own tears to bewilder us.
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