I died this morning as I rose,
just a tender push of cells
left unfired in the gloaming,
It never gets hot enough to
fashion pots, Pan,
but poetry is enough
if I close my book.
There are no monkeys here. If you're looking for monkeys, go away. Well, actually there are monkeys, but they're of the hairless variety that writes poetry and such. If that's not what you're looking for move along.