For Keats
Peace is where the body finally goes
after trying all the moves its fever knows;
asylum where your debt for what you chose
need not be paid and the interest never grows;
bower where no one’s lips look like a rose
and no one hopes you’ll take off all your clothes.
Preferment’s not an issue there, you strike no pose:
tenure is freely granted though you’re off your toes.
It’s where the river Lethe darkly flows
(except it doesn’t). No one comes to blows.
The lover there lies safe in perpetual doze-
woman who has no dreams of lusty beaus
and thro’ whose curtains peeps no hellish nose;
man unthinkably unworried by his foes.
All sound there would be blank as endless oh’s;
no messy voice can say “here follows prose.”
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