He was angry that there wasn’t enough poetry in the world. Everything he did had poetry flowing out of him. He got drunk with poetry and loved women with poetry. Everything had a pause and flamboyant gesture. Life was a tapestry of words. His eyesight was failing so his friend read him the poetry of Keats and Shelly while he sat there smiling. Even his death was poetic falling down the stairs. He was read Ode to a Nightingale as he lay in a coma. He thought he saw a poetic shudder at light’s end, but then, perhaps he was mistaken.