A clerk’s confession he told to the furnace

I reckless me snuck a poor man in my bed.
He’s a bum, poor and filthy by all accounts.
Though there were none of him I found.
How things may be and yet not are, oh how
things made what are made and unmade onward.
A delicacy, and bouncing like a madman
on his intricate revelries impersonal and bound.
I think, though I forget, his name was Keats.
He ate the cooked liver I left, and left.

Advertisements

~ by Jeremy on June 10, 2012.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

 
%d bloggers like this: