Far as earth’s core-mantle boundary, its
4,000 degrees Celsius flaming
limit to our agony? Can limits
exist in core’s iron-dominated ring,
springing magnetic fields to protect us
from solar storms? Do our solid center,
liquid outer crux somehow reflect us?
Can our reason ever hope to enter
feeling, route its uncharted boundaries
of mountainous wars and low-valleyed peace?
Fair Psyche, confused by the mystery
of her night-veiled lover, made Cupid flee
by lighting the oil lamp. Oh, how she yearned,
walked into hell, not knowing he’d return.
Roger Armbrust
July 2, 2008
