An ingenuity too astonishing | to be quite fortuitous is | this bog full of sundews, sphagnum | lined 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 with a sticky mirror | afire with sunlight, a million | of them and again a million, | each mirror a trap set to | unhand unbelieving, |  | 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 the cup that, looking, | you start to fall upward.