I'm a medium poet
my temperature never rising too high
and that's okay my darlings, that's okay

historically, greatness seems to require more misery than i'm willing to wear
anymore. I let it go with
forgiveness
sold my soul to the angels so
i can stand in the garden in my
purple bathrobe to hear
trumpets blare see
little strip-ed bees crawling into the
foxglove, smiling dandelions
500 square feet of mystery and
i'm struck, once again, by
awe