Summer 2006 • Vol. XXVIII No. 3 Poetry |

Aristotle in the Middle Ages

They came from everywhere to that long tablein the Middle Ages.It was cold in there, in damp Toledoin the room where Bishop Raymond and the otherspicked their way through tomes,so thick with dust motes,candles burning down the darkest time. They could not believe their dizzy luck.De Anima in Arabic was theirs,his animation of the hard, true worldthe soul inhabits, like their feet in socks.The nature of the natural was given,in a dozen works that God himselfcould understand as what he really meant. Having made their way down nightsthrough untold pages, with their quills alight,they all went out into the little streetsto feed on sausages like fat red fingersand to drink their health:the world was theirs again to witness,walk on, wake in, feed and feel.

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