One (after Rilke)

Largely on his own, young Andrew sits

considering his crayons, woolly toys;

more single than the loneliest of boys

encoded in a matrix, special net:

Down’s Syndrome his recurring epithet

and, in his head, a special kind of noise,

‘contain the world, oh hold it!’ cry his muse’

and woolly toys and crayons are his mates.

But aren’t we all like that, within our ways,

stabilizing bubbles in our head,

turning inwards - into iphones, net -

(not ambling forward like the tiger, lamb

open to the river or the land)

hyonotised by spouses, girls and boys?