lundi 17 août 2015

For John Keats

For John Keats



I heard you coughing this morning,
smelled the smoke
in the corridor.
The smoke, that hacking cough,
as the director di
Museo, might,
review Shelley’s papers early
with you
this Sunday morning
while the building was
closed and
The Steps
quiet.

Quiet steps down
and I was locked
 out.
I tried to
ring
that director, but
island vacations
had drawn him;
it was only
you
left.

Left locked
in
your eternal
mental end
of beauty and
sickness; joy and
death.

There you stay
As guests and fans; the
curious bore past
your door, past your land
scapes, past your friends,
past where you
Still lie,

past.


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