Ouroboros and Back Again

subalternus

this rolling to the prehensile
lip-story of other families,

my half-brother limp diving
with canes of curb-walkers;

no dates calendarific that
bell a mindful arithmetic

far superior to any addings
of heart and heart and heart.

that was that family and that
was that incubating greenhouse

that shelled out for then’s now
and then and any pen la-dee-da.

(oh! look at this self-N.B
genealogy— go back.)

one of them talked of blankets
covering us with indifference

the seventh of thirteenth holy children
none not never catholic

although always universal across
passages whether water or pages.

we were happy with steps in step
that stomped any drying blood

and here or there blind or no
one always knows the path

to other houses’ other hearts.



with thanks to Philip Larkin for the blankets