John Keats rests his head as angular
as two racially white blades of hay.
He has set himself down in a field of lilies
and he loves you, Fanny—you—Fanny, you.
Butterflies alight on a better life.
Two children follow like popped eyes.
Meanwhile the olive sodomite Brown
rapes a differently white Irish girl
named Abigail: sooty complexion,
herpes simplex, biceps, forceps.
Two children follow like popped eyes.
One trails behind; the other is you.
Everyone around you is masturbating
except for you. You’re going to. You do.
John Keats dies. Fanny spreads and tears
the wings off the bodies of the butterflies.
They’re black like paper and crumble just as well.
The silent boy in the hat with the butterfly
net tells all the butterflies they can go to hell.