Of His Pupil

There is a place, perhaps sublunary
but wild in our breast for centuries.
The motor has been set in necessary
locked in some nucleus beyond miseries.

Deep submerged,
along the folds, fold by fold
seen far nearer
trapped in the motor
yet be translucent.

Once for whom assumes
unlocks the motor, of his pupil
mydriasis, bursting  a marble belched
slipping into our treacle
a fly caught in a pulp
embroiled
within the eight-pattern universe
altered into imagined cosmoses
fueling, as powders scattered
til its sideways seeing catches our light
in which we unknow of all that we have known.

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