by Joe Lever
When Keats had fears that he may cease to be,
Alone to night he turned, to shore in thought
Those thoughts against the nothingness – and he
Resolved to unhand all he wrote and wrought.
Still, he lives on; and now I take his place
In thinking, fearing, knowing that my being
Here is but an accident of space
And time soon to be rectified. And seeing
This hazed horizon line form in my mind,
I feel like wind a sadness there renew –
Unsettled, momentary, missed – and find
That neither dread nor calm attends this view:
I stand unanswered, and the night goes on
Somewhere becoming morning, and is gone.