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.