KEATS WAS RIGHT

Locom towns rattle the boy and ball with
smells of dampening death
bedded in looms of wool
woven through her cat's eyes on the roadway.

In so much,
his tableau of pills lined up in a row
grasped frequently under tonight's pillow summon
ballet-esque the weight waters
to wash like slew through
the chips of his tooth
until he realised Keats was right,

'A thing of beauty is a joy forever,
it will never pass into nothingness'.