by Ben Macnair
(A three part Cento using lines by John Keats and Jewel Kilcher)
O, leave the palm to wither by itself.
Though I am 8, my Father is 63 years old.
He would not stop at home.
Full of muscle.
And, piteous she looked on,
With all the patience of stars,
Dead and senseless things,
Caught on the crosswires.
My Madeline! Sweet Dreamer! Lovely Brooke
Together, we have sensed distance.
Once you are gone, my game gets stronger.
Never mind, quoth the Raven,
Flapping like an archaic flag.
Meanwhile, in other realms, big tears were shed,
Until my consciousness could return,
And spit out the bad seeds.
I have just caught a glimpse,
And of thy Lillies, that do paler grow
In the South West of England,
I don’t suppose raindrops
Danced along with vague, regardless eyes,
While past the vision went in bright array.