Keats and I

Ah, Keats!
You are two hundred years older than me,
Though you died so young.
I wish ­
We could wink at each other
Through beaded bubbles brimming between us.
Why were you born so full a poet,
And me, none at all?
Despite all these years of reading you,
And wondering ­ if ­if
Antibiotics cured me of the muse.

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