In the book I am reading, Lord
Byron is still alive, but Shelley
has just drowned. The chill tons
close over him like the Whale
God’s jaws. A few plain words
across one page, and he is gone.
The great, icy lid slams
shut over his troubled shining.
It is July 8, 1822: Cancer’s fearsome
augur. In ten days his body will beach
with the sopped volume of Keats’
poems open inside his coat pocket.
I have put my book aside
before news of the poet’s death
can spread. It lies on its back
on the bare floor, its broken spine
becalmed, in a quiet lake of sunlight.
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