On Hyperion

Hyperion stands proud
Like Atlas, a monument;
Miltonic refuge.

On his style

River-gorged hand,
Throbs, sweet-scented, vineyarded…
Too slow for haikus.

On his death

Killed by bad reviews?
Not likely. I would have been
Dead ten times over.

On his death, take two

Keats supreme sparkled
For precious few months; gone young,
Œuvre unachieved.