That reminds me of one of my poems, "The Squint and the Grin." Here's the part of it:

Tongs and beaker,

syringe and protractor—

arsenal of the mild detectives,

white-smocked angelic overseers,

conspiring to trick the nameless whole

to unveil its reason.

The trap backfires,

the reason dissolving

like a pastel skein of cotton candy.

Beneath the roots of the intergalactic tree, Yggdrasil:

seeds of chaos tapped by guardians of order,

Olympian heroes of physicality,

tending to the limbs as overblown landscapers.

The Reason, the Word, the Song—

you could hold the seed

between your praying palms

or strain the twin vanguards

of your castled, squidgy conspirator

as you peer into the random folds,

at the bubbles in the fluxing death-blood

that coats the bark and leaves in the absurd,

like a sprawling joke with no punch line,

inscribed in invisible ink.