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.


~ by Jeremy on June 10, 2012.

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