By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/7/08

An olive leaf with red fringes and red veins
Has been incised by an insect with sharp
Mandibles. The resultant irregularly
Fashioned slits allow the vision to enter
A shimmering distance. Ah, finally: satiation!
True, any eight-year old could fabricate
This trick. It is only the willingness to let
Your eyes be deceived by a red-caped magus.
Suppose, however, that the wind hums through the slits,
So that the Science of Keys becomes operational,
Spin-orbit, total angular momentum,
The application of the spectra-interval rule —
Those quivering things that set the mind at ease.
No bodies to flagellate. No souls to damn.
No complicated theories to deceive.
Only this child a-bulge beneath the veil,
Repeating his one enigma in a stream:
“I will insert you here. This place that is
Everywhere and nowhere, this riot
Of crimson among the dourest leaves.”
Is this when the artifact is opened by the breeze?
Is this when we suddenly enter the hidden maze,
Where we find, that like roses, or any of love’s effects,
That all of our solemn vows are but brief gusts
Of the subtlest scent that lasts for as long it lasts?

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