AT THE NATIONAL
ARTS CLUB
There was never a moment like now : things pass and
old names linger, but they no longer carry the breath or
air we need to recognize the moment. Cinders fly from
tabletop fires. Men sit about, writing their silent books.
In the hall of ancients, I am watching - heads bob as
minds fall asleep. Women scurry, holding their pens
and quills. The funny artist, so small, runs off with
his easel. Papers fall from the ceiling above.
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