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
Where, 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.