years ago My Mam made
Me a blanket. Her fingers
wrought realisation from
the present, & I sit
beneath That every day.
I imagine burning It ,
corner to corner, to a
web of sparking reality;
a web of every little
two-headed Lamb.
I read It, I cry&read It
again, become fraught
with unbecoming. every
Lamb saw twice as many
stars, &so I see it too.
this morning I sought
the centre, turned one
million holes to one,
& channelled everything
to My own experience.
ode to 'the two-head calf' by laura gilpin.