We want nature pure, quiet, still, the same
as when it was named by some old science
in apparent defiance of the true
and difficult askewness, the oblique
and freakish motion of all we don’t know.

This is so;  for it is the very form
of Name that keeps the swarm of doubt and fear
outside.  The sheer and terrifying size–
were we to recognize–of all that’s real
would make us feel so tiny, so unsure.

( 10 lines, 10 syllables each
interior rhyme:  last word of each with middle syllable in next stanza, last line last word rhymes with middle of first line.)


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