The Dying Artist, 1820 (After William Hilton)

John Keats dies a little more each day,
his lungs like lepers; loose bits of them fall
around his heart. He tries, but can't recall
a moment free from pain. The sun's last ray,

reflecting gold off motes that dance and sway
just inches overhead, appears to crawl;
a brilliant caterpillar. Keats' scrawl
is getting faint. He has to find a way

to keep on writing. Paper, water, ink...
he coughs up blood. It's thin, though, far too weak
to write with. Love. He doesn't know it well,

but (soft!) he sees his shepherd, under spell:
this grandiose design he dared to speak,
consuming... Keats looks up, as if to think—

by Scott Miller