This was a temple—now a room only a god could fill, no walls, no ceiling. Or this might
have been a house. Now a diorama with stick figures in toothpick canoes, two inch bear
and cat, a priest in miniscule mask. Or this was a water tower. Or this was a lookout post.
What’s vacillation to the stoat, underground, sucking at the egg of time?
You can’t climb on the archaeological evidence. You can’t guess what it means that they
found the bones of fifty young women, five beheaded boys, behind the auto plants of
Ohio. We like to think we could have been kings. We would have been the sacrifice, the
doped and earnest girls going swingingly by on bare feet.
Here’s the real lesson to be learned. You can eat dirt if you have to, if you’re really
hungry. You can humiliate yourself with the truth. You can open the hinge of earth to
extract bone or oil, you can take off the top of a mountain to build a Piggly Wiggly. You
can mow the grass on the sacred mound; it doesn’t change anything at all. It’s only a
matter of going up, after all, in order to go out to one another.