Keats At Fifty Eight

What if we had spent
the last twenty years together,
would we bicker all the time

like the wife and me,
or would we have written beautiful
poetry together?

If Keats had lived to fifty eight
would he have revolutionized the art,
written sonnets that would have replaced the world?

His words too beautiful to look at
like the sun
churning in your hands.

I can not look into your eyes, querida,
and not feel the pain in my heart
tearing the past apart

to see if two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and I took the wrong one, sad poetry
blocking the way like a dead Robert Frost.