At Keats' house

Here we are, in separate photographs, at Keats' House. Jami, beautiful and witty, looks directly into the camera; I, pensive, my scarf draped along my belly, gaze across the yard. Jami wrote about salad and bird poo recently; I don't have any material like that - but it doesn't sound very Keatsian: salad and poo - saladpoo might be an organic hair product. There is a Seinfeld where Kramer prepares a salad while taking a shower. He tells Elaine just as she's biting into some lettuce. Wonderful moment.
Keats' house is a wonderful place, right across from the Heath. Inside artifacts remain from the famous poet. Among the papers I saw, a bad debt from betting at the track, a certain amount owed on Melancholy, a horse that had not done so well.
I love you honey.

From our honeymoon

We stopped at a pub in Hampstead after clamboring about the Heath and had some of the local ale. Jami, elegant in the first frame, watches me as she drinks her pint; I, perhaps a bit winded from walking around the Heath's slick muddy fields and grass, am a bit blurry at first, but after my first sip, I've become solid and in focus again. It's a wonderful beer that restores vertical hold to the world. Yet here I am, now, all concrete and defined, and I've continued to be concrete and defined since. Was this some magic potion that I imbibed that day? Sure. Here's what I think happened. When we visited Keat's house earlier in the day, I noticed in the hutch that one of the glasses was missing. I think that the glass I'm holding right now is that glass. Am I implying that this glass, if it were that glass, has some kind of magical property? Maybe. Let's look at the facts. ******************************************************************* If that doesn't satisfy a critical inquiry I don't know what will.