Low September

O muse, sing of how I am nothing more

Than this, so mute, so selfish even now

As I look deep into these godlike words;

I am made small. This is a prophecy.

O muse, sing loudly of my weakness

And my pride! I wish for gifts I cannot

Claim, hold my ambition high with my own

Flawed voice—my death erased by glory sought.

O muse, sing of the things I think I know:

The machinations of the human mind,

The greatness that eclipses dying suns—

How I bid haste to these old dreams of mine.

Sing hymns of how inferior I am,

Of need to prove that I existed—breathed.