Kate reads Keats in the blooming garden—

This morning, fainting, with its own delirious perfume,

And the furry bees, circling, come—

There’s already a bee lost and buzzing near the bed in Kate’s room—

It is this massive love of Keats which she most loves,

Keats’ words kissed is what Kate does well.

How much Kate loves me, the bees

Know—populations buzzing with speculation on disease

Is a hearty recommendation of poetry, actually,

And nothing of his demise, the crumbling well,

The breaking of other things gets to be told.

Sometimes smoke coming out of a smokestack

Is just smoke coming out of a smokestack.

Sometimes a dead white male is just a male who’s dead.

The days are getting shorter now, and Kate is getting old.

I would like to point out, thanks to Kate, I am healthy,

And everything’s going my way, as if I had been blessed by God,

Though I’m a helpless atheist, and addicted to Kate, so isn’t that odd?

Ah, doubts and fears—I’ve learned to let them be.

In the garden Kate is reading Keats aloud to me.





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