Maybe just because their spindles burst 

Exuberantly from a spiral spine, overdone

Moroccan lace dressing every line, immersed

And honeycombed with Persian sun, 


Do these leaflets seem almost too 

Well-versed, minarets foreshadowed

By each other's thirst, streaked bamboo

When, beneath each node,


The DNA of light weaves in 

And out like Escher stairs,

Leaving labyrinths where thread had been,

Layered by a hand that copies theirs.


Honolulu Library

August 8th, 2005