I followed her down the Spanish Steps her pink dress billowing in the wind she was Hellenism in motion the tireless grace of youth
in the plaza I dashed into Keats' house a mausoleum of dead Romantic poets and their ever-living verse death masks decorated the shelves as Byron and Shelley
rose in shadow a lair of brotherhood rife with premature deaths and ill-lived lives I peered into Keats' life mask looked up and in the doorway languid Nike in pink
I handed her a new volume of Keats' odes she smiled hollowly set the book aside and searched for wings to flee human contact missing a head her ancestor guards the Louvre