This Warm Scribe

by Will Harris

I came to Well Walk
where Keats kept watch
by poor Tom’s bed. There
he dreamed a war up
in his head: the old gods
scared to die, the new
gods scared to live.
& all I did was sit in
bed & drink cold juice
& burn small heaps
of crisped spice wood.
No word rang true.
I could not bear this
thing of time. Be with
me when the old
world dies. Be with me.

The night was full &
in my lips no stars but
names. Where the dead
leaf fell there did it rest.
The tree being one
leaf less words filled
the gap. This word, no
that. I talked to all the
dead whose names
were mine. I talked till
there was no one left.
I talked in you & you
in me till sleep talked
through us both &
there were no words
left. Be with me. Be.

The night was full &
in my lips no stars but
names. Where the dead
leaf fell there did it rest.
The tree being one
leaf less words filled
the gap. This word, no
that. I talked to all the
dead whose names
were mine. I talked till
there was no one left.
I talked in you & you
in me till sleep talked
through us both &
there were no words
left. Be with me. Be.

I came to Well Walk
where Keats kept watch
by poor Tom’s bed. There
he dreamed a war up
in his head: the old gods
scared to die, the new
gods scared to live.
& all I did was sit in
bed & drink cold juice
& burn small heaps of
crisped spice wood.
No word rang true.
I could not bear this
thing of time. Be with
me when the old
world dies. Be with me.