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.

I drunk a swig of hemlock

along with the ghost of Keats 

and all of the sudden 

the blue-green waves of poetry

rushed at last into the most

beautiful words.

Oh love, stay there in the sunshine

 don't tarry long beside this gloom.