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I saw Keats on the train today.
He looked speechless,
but I was speechless too.
Help me, Keats, if you can,
I thought, tell me about
survival, about living.
Sure enough, you would know.
I almost asked out loud
but didn’t
couldn’t, on this Thursday
an almost-day, a gray day,
and a silent one.
So later I wrote down
questions to ask him,
respectful of his decease.
Where are you now?
Did you go home?
Is it beautiful there?
Is it true there?
Do words really matter?
Do you live with God?
Do words really matter?
Do words really matter?
Does anything matter?
If I see him again, I’ll give
him the questions. If he doesn’t
show, I’ll try to answer them.