sound super-vibrant in Keats's Odes: sugar—little pinches of granulated sugar—are shaper, sweeter-sweeter in my throat.
And God grows less remote. And my wooden coffin and deep wet yellow clay grave move a long way back from me.
—all from fleeting ungratified wish of sly sex-tissues—
Also in it, and in my life from it, I sense some deathly pathos.
