Saturday, May 06, 2006

The night crowded with empty directions,
centuries in the Trades.

At thirty-one my boy John Keats
was dead six years, halfway a saint.

The years were "brass" upon his tongue.

Darkling I listen
to the first movement (allegro)
of the second Brandenburg Concerto,
boastful, full-throatful,
a golden bird hurtling as to the stars,
joyous voyager.

You have gone too far--
The pink house crowded with empty rooms.
--where are you?

Dear John,
enough is enough.

Please come home.

Nothing is forgiven.

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