In Keats’s house are many

clocks. They tick like spades

entrenching a grave

between his walls and Fanny’s

disassembled rooms.

Back then, the wine

cellar came all unstocked,

the birds undone—the virgin

pages made to bear

the hurried impress of his mind.

It happens that way. 

The blood appears

in streaming clots, the day

runs out, the afternoon too soon

dissolves to closing time.

Put shillings

or a pound or two

in the slot by the door for young

John Keats. Or not,

and make an awkward bow.