I have a sheet; it's square - six feet. It's kinda smart, but not too neat. When at its best, 'twas freshly pressed, Now, in its wrinkles hides a treat. It's on the ground, where I am found; It forms a membrane, all around, So I won't touch - yet, still, sense much Of what consists my covered mound. Though time has made the way it's laid Get bunched and ridged, it yet has stayed A truthful sheath to what's beneath: The rocks and bumps with which I've played. The way I see, my memory, And faults, are all this sheet to me; This wrinkled form became my norm, The sense with which, the world, I see.
Copyright © 1996, Reg Harbeck, all rights reserved.

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