The average of all miracles is still a miracle. Watching it all back in slow and sweet, memories catch a stench of fairy time. I don’t want to embellish the facts, but at tongue lapse and repeats, I am back at vanilla. Like grammar built into my body, a language called to the surface every time you ask if I’m hungry before ten. We go to the plaza, get the same thing. Savoury or sweet is the question. Just a matter of taste. Because of it, my bones settle happy out here in a below average galaxy made of extraordinarily average things and extraordinarily fortunate events. One thing is like all the others, and in the right light, it shines all pretty.
— Original poem written in 2025 for Soy Milk 4