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On His Way to Rome Keats
Would See a Cardinal
Shooting Birds
by Casey Fuller
Unfortunate, he
mumbled, like the first
time he hemorrhaged
blood, by now used to
the plodding jostle of
horse hooves and the
course of the muddy
road. Rome seemed far,
and by now his thoughts
spread lengthwise,
outward, mildly
acknowledging what he
could see in the
distance. It was beyond
a question of queasy
now, and the rhythmic
carriage added to the
feeling of illness and
delusion and his
thoughts
almost seemed to reach
to the hills and trees
he could see.
Occasionally he’d see
Severn, his travel
companion, who, because
of the ground, could
Walk at the same pace as
the horses, and the
regular human thoughts
of food and pissing
would come back to him.
Although a port, he
couldn’t believe Naples
smelt that way last
night and everybody ate
spaghetti with their
hands. Of course he
didn’t sleep. He tried
shaking his head but he
couldn’t tell if he was
responding over the
bounce of the horses.
Lazily, in the way where
a series of half-hearted
ideas would cascade, he
was thinking that maybe
the world had eyes too,
and when he wrote poems
the magic was when the
world looked back,
openly, in gesture of
wide mutual acceptance.
He like the idea. He was
pleased that such a
thought would register
so clearly at this
point. He knew he was
being carried to more
than Rome by these
horses. So every thought
of beauty was
amplified with gratitude
and joy, especially the
birds, which were moving
too fast to see, but
whose songs he always
incalculably loved with
the similar feeling that
oddly seemed to be
overcoming him now. He
tried at a smile, but
wasn’t sure if that
registered either. And
then was distracted by
a red figure up ahead.
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