ROMANTICISM


Only twelve

when words

unlock the dust

making faces

against a raging night


Six hours

of a lyric answer

a touch of strangeness

from vagabond dreams

rolls over the bed


A bright moon

dances in the shade

and my Keats

has fallen asleep

on the whitest sheet

of a burning ode

from the starry Muse

breathing in the unknown

waking from

disappearing vistas

and Medusa's stone.