He cut agatized pinecones and snailshells,
Both from the Eocene, dawn of fauna.
His accent was somewhere between
The Black Forest and Michigan, as if
The world had folded at his latitude.
Open, the pinecones were a resinous
Brown—like amber, also from that era—
With swishing long lashes about to blink.
Hmmmm, we said, watching him work
So slowly, reproaching himself whenever
One chipped. We felt on the verge
Of solving it. If we could bring a fresh
Pair—I mean a real one—of eyes
To this, we could finally pin it down.
Do ideas, in channels, move in or out?
We are changing, I think we are
Changing. Twilight flora and fauna,
We are crouching in fir forests,
With backs up like the mountains,
We are deeply breathing the fern
Continent that will restore the earth
To itself. It looks just like the ripples
In rocks, Alex observed at the beach,
And I had always thought the same.
Were agates maybe … alive,
I ventured. Slice into the mind and find
Patterns; I had a horn coral once
With the alphabet outside. Within
The gastropods were the most
Marvelous mauve velvet chambers
Where the organism sleeps a million
Years in luxury. With a satin mask
On and marabou mules. Not fish
Or flesh or good red fowl. Andrewsarchus,
From the Eocene, looking like a dog
That missed. We are changing,
I believe we’re between. Those ridges
Where the earth’s hackles are raised,
Something approaches, something
Is coming, near deer or that thing
Like a coyote I saw in Kansas,
A scrap of patchy hide and glue.
No one would look at it and say
It had been overloved, but it had.
Loved in sleep and loved in waking
By the day, who drags it reluctant
Upstairs, bumping it at every step.
The sky is still so white. Not yet.