You with your Wordsworthian patter can never be Keats. Because you have already lived too long. So I am cast as your forever Dorothy. Give me your wedding ring and let me spot the page with time. I’ve always liked the way that Cockermouth, Cumberland sounds on my lips. But there is no place like Grasmere. Postscript. You tell me I am your English mail coach. But doesn’t that mean that I am always leaving you behind? Carried away. Like a pen across the page. Glorying in my own motion, I ride through your opium-tinged dream fugue. Towards sudden death.