HEMLOCK

 

Here I am in this garret

where no insulting light

could glimmer on

my endless guffaw

like taking a curtain call

and bowing down

to be acknowledged

by an audience of ghost-

like beauties

in broad morbidezza

as if I had drunk a swig of hemlock

along with Keats and suddenly

the blue-green waves of poetry

 breaking at last into words

don't tarry long beside my gloom