I find ways to keep a sense of peace

but it is not always easy; for example,

I can't keep my questions tempered:

What kind of sun expounds its rays

upon the hills but then mutes

like an ordinary bulb, small

and self-contained?

Moreover, what moon filters

the blistering whiteness of

snow so that it can only be seen

by the fiscally immune, enamored by the dully-noted?

Let me amble with Keats

and his wandering expression

and try to figure out if the poem keeps

me encased in the rapture for which

my dim external life won't account.