Keats dying in Rome
wrote this living hand
that red life might stream
again. There she stands
hand on sofa back,
pausing to say fondly,
Good morning. Her luck
dies at one syllable,
the missing morning sucked
airless away, the visible
remnant not Susan,
fast emptying crucible
now requiring dozens
to tend, to mourn, to ask
why this loss, for no reason.
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