Calling It Keats

Fruit flies, a
panicle’s worth,
an aged pineapple.
Confession: I’ve never
actually seen

them chew &
what have you; so
speech acts of surety
are a no-go, all lie,
naught truth, hence
the erstwhile

experiencing, doughlike:
good for hunches,
a quench of haunches,
art class & the rest of it,
you know,

life’s reactions you can’t
keep down with just
a sandbag or a finger,
also, life’s blank days
you can’t bookmark.

I need bookends
for each stage
of this life, none
of which cares to engage
the eye of the other.
Indebted to my body,

their common knot,
I employed
all ten of my
fingers to hold you still
for experiencing

as Keats must have done,
inspired by his Grecian
urn. Methinks it’s a form
of bio-nepotism, but what
do I know?

Photo by Esther Wilhelmsson on Unsplash


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