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.