The Stair

        The heart, it hoards—

how I know this—

The small, strangled

        shining room Keats lost

his life in—and to—

beyond the window sunlight

        arranging itself

on the Spanish Steps

while the poet watches.

        Outside, snapshots

of the tourists

& teenagers tired

        of what they don’t

know yet. What will

become of us? Ash.

        Unasking. The death

mask made of Keats

no longer breathing—

        look at it

not look at us.

Beyond the window

        the stairs stretch heavenward

stranded, without

one ounce of shade.