Mum took me to the dome on Baker Street.
The sky was like charcoal above my seat.
The starry dots were copies from my books
and Mum set me free to observe such outlooks.
It was enough, for her, to see me spark
as the hidden Zeiss machine showed each arc.
Compressed light years in the half globe
were presents to my eager, front brain lobe.
We walked out into daylight. Our earthly souls
floated, on top, like light out of black holes.