Halfway Through Civilization, Late to Another
meeting for grown-ups, i hurry across campus,
pulling my uncool roller bag up the curb. Early autumn, walking
through Hopkins dearest freshness deep down things dearest freshness
past the dorm basement through wisps of corporate lilac fabric
softener. The outline of a squirrel’s tail points down like a
tornado to the nuthatch in the cedar. There’s a bubble in the
invisible; they’re going to have to do it over. My colleagues are
dear & mostly calm. Nearly three decades of staring at their
shoes under committee tables: firm, practical shoes, the seams
strained. Earnest faces in a circle, making lists to make shapes of
thought.
Pausing near the library, the goddess zone of the
orderly ones, thinking of symbolic forms. Autumn creeps on
to the Central Valley, to the engineered seeds & to seeds that
weren’t engineered & have fallen free. They’ve developed
enough escape velocity to be released to a layer none of us
knows about, a sighing between sighing. What is a thought?
Often i think of the ritual burial of the Neanderthal child, found
with ibex horns arranged in an arch around his little head. Who
thought that up? Of course, an ibex might also bury its dead, but
could not make the arch. Why did hominids think the arch
could help? As Virgil notes, they made the gates of horn. They
uttered & cried out.