borrowing freely from Keats
Deep in the shady sadness of his room,
far swollen from his diet of codeine and wine
Beyond the fires of television at noon, and the evening star,
lay gray-hair'd Gene, "quiet as a stone.
Still as the silence round about his lair."
And then the lines come, streaming light,
filaments of invention and memory,
with whimsy, alegria; a poetic calculus of joy.
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