During my hermitage on a mountain in California, off the trail
I came across a site named Adam's Springs, where I imagined the ruins of an ancient temple. Perhaps the first built temple, from the time when caves were abandoned because the walls began dreaming on their own.

Walking amongst ravaged blocks of concrete, long reinforcing rods piercing moldering gray viscera, I knew the Greeks had built temples that could "be seen in their uncompromised logic and true dimension: as compact images or acts of will—of what, that is to say, neural cliques in the memory system allow the brain to encode the key features of specific epododes and, at the same time, to extract from those experiences general information that men are and can make— nakedly separate from the natural environment but to be understood in balance with it."

The dead are our gods. We must pry open their mouths.
They cannot live without our sustenance.
We bring hammers and chisels.
We crack their throats.

Civilization is sited where humans set themselves against the rest of creation, while praying to their gods for the wisdom to know where and how wide to open the gate.

And once more she pushed shut the door, and once more she threw a few grains of incense on the brazier before the goddess, and once more she sat down before her goddess, in the almost-darkness, to muse, to go away into the dream of the goddess. It was Isis, but not Isis, Mother of Horus. It was Isis Bereaved, Isis in Search.

So Isis is searching the world for the severed limbs of her son,
because gods are resurrected from the marrow of their words.