Sonnet
Sonnet
Sick of being sick, I think of Keats,
Who caught tuberculosis from his brother
Who he held in his arms as he was dying,
Inhaling the mycobacteria
That would kill him years later in Rome.
So intimate, to breathe in one’s death
On the breath of one whom one loves.
Towards the end there must have been parties
He excused himself from to cough
Into a handkerchief on a balcony
While staring through the windows on which
The breath of dancers had condensed
At the dancers with their scarlet faces
From having grown warm dancing and from laughing.