Knowing angels bespangle every bough of every treeįor my son, perhaps, or for someone not me. On Rye Common, now, I scrub puree off my jeans, I try to let pale roses pool with supernatural lightīlake was four when God put his head to the window.Īnd have wanted for there to be SOMETHING so long and so much –Īnd, yes, my child reveals the holy in dull reality,īut he makes dullness and reality my responsibility.Īt four, I believed I too was destined to see visions. Sleeplessness, I’ve heard, can induce visions – If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would be infinite I see doors and think: can I get my pram through that? Lately, I see through a narrow chink in a stairgate.
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