BYRON
It seems their dream
is not all dream
but, too far off,
quite Satanic.
In a flat just east
of Williamsburg,
Southey wakes
two-hundred years
beyond his initial scheme
for rule by all,
pierced by the scream
of Coleridge’s carbon-
monoxide alarm
which they’ll take turns
socking with a hammer until, drained
of all battery, they’re both madder red.
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