Toddlerhood again, again

The hell of being related to people one isn’t related to
is less a bright mess, all squealing and teeming.
It is more square and less circle, no poetry to it,
no great bemoaning squire to be inspired by touching.
Only old folks and the sponges they shot off and taught
how to grow fat, laugh at horrible things that kill folks
not bastard enough to have leaked through these men
rife with arrogant cells that bully the mothers’.
And more, and more. One thinks of crabs in the sea.
Throw them into salted water on a stovetop tapping
your feet and smell the big-armed black sheep cooking.


~ by Jeremy on May 29, 2012.

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