And we: spectators, always, everywhere, / looking at every-
thing and never from!
/ It floods us. We arrange it. It decays.
We arrange it again, and we decay.

Soles clotted with recently mixed mud, knees bent to a single
task, I arrived at the bench where philosophers sit and unravel
their knotty thoughts.

Clouds shaped, entangled and Prometheus scoops up a handful
of clay and, using river water, he shapes the first man. In so doing,
he reproduces the birth of the gods themselves from Gaia,
man in the image of gods like himself. Just as Gaia
Light- footed birds had left a hieroglyphic path leading from the
"thick now" to mythologies that return us to an instinctual life.

I could have sat there forever. But when voices drifted up the trail,
I climbed higher, to where rain had scoured the mountain's pebbly
skin. Contrails, in stages of dissolution, crisscrossed sky's "over-
arching dome." In the valley below, red-tiled roofs huddled under
thick Eucalyptus trees shedding their sheets of uncensored bark.