Why did the nuns riot here in 1585
When the priory was 100 miles away?
There are many theories -- the brick will never tell,
The partially reconstructed parchment lies,
The somewhat intact urns have other things to do
Than to add up the glitches in this tale --
In the stories of the ages
And the sun that still obeys
All one can see is the wistful face
Willed from the most negligible of circumstantials.
In the other room, the coffee brews,
Papaya is sliced, the maps are out
To plot some imagined intersection of plans,
The floats need to be blown up, poolside cabanas
Reserved, the lotions like God's blessings
That can never be enough spread.
This spot of so much mystery
Has solidified to fact:
The food is more expensive there than here,
They must be down by 8 to guard the umbrellas,
When the smooth jazz percolates through the parakeet scrawl
They'll blow up the rafts for a dollar and a quarter.
The white rock beyond it all, shining like a saint,
Replies with neither what you want it to say
Nor what it knows. It just allows
The historian to be called lazy
And the rest of the vacationing family
To be cursed with the present's judgments,
Their tasks, and how they do them.
