243. THE HISTORY OF REALISM IS NOT A HISTORY OF REALITY

THE HISTORY OF REALISM

IS NOT A HISTORY
OF REALITY
Ten times the old clock struck - its hammered sound
striking less like a bell than a muffled mallet : onto
something coarse and hardened - a negative thud
like old Europe itself.
-
Had we been present then (at that creation when),
it's pretty certain we'd still have been holding hands
when the last bomb dropped. A Doppelganger of
ersatz Freedom (something more like doom), we watched
as St. Paul's fell. We saw Christopher Wren running away.
-
The tourist-guide lady said she'd read our palms (as
an extra) for fourteen American dollars each. This was
after there was no more to see anyway. You gave her your
hand (tearing it from mine), while I gave her my arm
She took both. She took all she could. She took everything.
-
That said, I still recall that we retreated to that small room
at the Harbinger Hotel and stayed there for hours, in love.
Or some form of contact; I forget. Room service brought
up snails and Sandover Oysters, since the month had an 'R';
months without 'R's in them are not good months for

oyster-eating, it is said in the guidebooks for food.
-
One last thing I forgot to mention:
The fortune-teller guide-lady got it
all wrong. Your purse was for her
penny. It was my heart, you remember,
that was for a song. All together, that
old clock was striking again....