I feel better off barefoot in rain softened summer grass
left over, having escaped the browsing graze
of cut-rate angels,
clumsy leggy angels -

And if at least their coats were longer
and more flowing and a different colour
and their poems appeared not from a chaff bag
but delivered on dew,

dressed in their Sunday best from head to toe,
with bells on, and diamonds in their eyes.
I might feel better off feet bound-in till the mind strangles.