On a Theme by Keats
Originally Published in the June 2012 Issue of Empirical
A fat cloud stumbles over
the last remaining light.
And as day dissolves into night,
the moon comes into sight.
Where is the peace it should bring?
I wonder, and stare at nothing.
But I have made peace with this
room in which I live,
where shadows like stones
sit idly like old men,
sipping tepid tea, warming
their fleshless bones.
And I do have a garden.
It’s somewhere in the dark.
I look at it in my mind.
This is what’s in my mind’s eye:
bees rushing to gather nectar
before the roses die.
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