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.
Sonnet
Sonnet
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.