got to the pierre menard gallery sunday night along the snowpiled alleys--with a bag of wine and a backpack of books and egg pastries. the coldest night of the year. my fingers were purple when i stepped inside and took off my coat and fidgeted with my threebutton jacket.
despite the new pain in my left heel, i'm still that same old someone, bound and determined to find sybil when i close my eyes to read.
in all the endless precipitation this january, i'm in a dry spell, drinkthinking.
the reading was a beautiful tribute to my hero, joseph brodsky, whose shadow of a ghost reformed under the track lights, warm podium and streetcooled pinotgris wine.
all arrived, and did the unthinkable: bought books, armloads. something in their bodies, i guess, was convinced by our conviction.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment