Where We Are. Sometimes

At bloodletting. Our fathers are caught

on brambles and we owe them

Ourselves, our roots, our patrician

feature. We are fetched for a lesson of cardboard

and spores.

As usual, dogs follow.

Lately our hands are cast from metal.

Only the lamps, upon dissection, answer.

This youth we arch toward (every

midnight silver blades shift).

Our fathers, the books

of cosmonauts—

mornings in a case and a kind

of tweed, we fast at a diner of slit light.