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?