The Stair
By Kevin Young
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.
