It was never the intention of any civilization

to flee its shell entirely, to fold itself

as though into a napkin and be carried off,

politely, by the next course.

And yet that seems to be precisely

what has happened, doesn’t it?

A roll, a twist, a somewhat casual untethering,

and suddenly every inch of the imposing edifice

was removed from the enclosure.

One would suspect civilizations, in their long view

of themselves, do not so much decline or perish

as simply rearrange the terms of their own presence,

step out of themselves with the same solemnity

with which one might leave a room during a conversation

not meant for them, or perhaps too deeply meant,

that each is padded, briefly, by flesh and thought

like a suit and hat borrowed from a dark antechamber

waiting on the rest of the darkness to arrive.

Which reminds us of the Rabbit—or maybe it was the Hat?

Who knows. What matters is each time the story is told

the rabbit runs faster and the hole gets deeper,

possible it could drop right through the hole,

and what looked like freedom turns

into the cone of a waking dream in a teacup,

and the intermission reveals itself as the main act

without the slightest hint of pomp,

skids sideways along thin, subterranean channels

where light can’t get in and where the ritual of detachment,

performed without ceremony, becomes the ceremony.