Dave Brinks | The Ouroboros


with men as with caterpillars
nothing was chanced
the penniless world was hemmed-in
by mountains on three sides
with gibbons and cranes to seem endless
gradually three or four flowers
tiny divots of earth
by the tens of thousands
and a skein of fine white sewing silk
appeared on my coat and hat
but to allow for the ouroboros
that lives inside my head
perched on the caldera’s rim
and over my shoulder
like the white bird you can’t see
the spyglass drew a cocoon
beating a drum in the doorway
of my own raising
so many misshapen wishes

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