SONNET: PROFUNDITY In the hoary vault of a troll king Lies a rune of reverent age, Impressed upon a thick slab of turquoise And laced with black onyx and jade. The mysterious spell that it's holding Is known in this world but by three: One's a bald, wrinkly scalped yogi, Two's an obese Turkish hodja, Three is -- immodestly -- me. Now, the Turk's in an opium stupor. And the Hindu? He speaks only Sanskrit. But I'll tell the curious who lean over this sagely, old elvish writ: 'Does the spoon taste the soup?'*