An ingenuity too astonishing

    to be quite fortuitous is

    this bog full of sundews，

    sphagnum-lines and shaped like a teacup.

    A step down and you're into it；

    a wilderness swallows you up：

    ankle-， then knee-， then midriff-

    to-shoulder-deep in wetfooted understory，

    an overhead spruce-tamarack horizon hinting

    you'll never get out of here.

    But the sun among the sundews， down there，

    is so bright， an underfoot

    webwork of carnivorous rubies，

    a star-swarm thick as the gnats

    they're set to catch， delectable

    double-faced cockleburs， each

    hair-tip a sticky mirror

    afire with sunlight， a million

    of them and again a million，

    each mirror a trap set to

    unhand believing，

    that either a First Cause said once，

    "Let there be sundews，" and there were，

    or they've made their way here unaided

    other than by that backhand， round-

    about refusal to assume responsibility

    known as Natural Selection.

    But the sun underfoot is so dazzling

    down there among the sundews，

    there is so much light

    in that cup that， looking，

    you start to fall upward.