A poem happened to me, I think. This is the poem-event:
I dreamed that I had inherited a small apartment in Paris, and had been transported to it. I went outside to find out what neighborhood I was in and it was Montmartre. I said, “Well. I did not expect to inherit an apartment in Paris, and had I chosen my own apartment in Paris, I would not necessarily have chosen this neighborhood. But I live in Montmartre now, and it is a good thing.”
I remembered the dream in the afternoon, at the Palace of the Legion of Honor in San Francisco. I was looking at a book illustrated by Sonia Delaunay, of Blaise Cendrars’ La Prose du Transsibérien et de la Petite Jehanne de France. “Dis, Blaise, sommes-nous bien loin de Montmartre?” it asks.
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A poem happened to me, I think. This is the poem-event:
I dreamed that I had inherited a small apartment in Paris, and had been transported to it. I went outside to find out what neighborhood I was in and it was Montmartre. I said, “Well. I did not expect to inherit an apartment in Paris, and had I chosen my own apartment in Paris, I would not necessarily have chosen this neighborhood. But I live in Montmartre now, and it is a good thing.”
I remembered the dream in the afternoon, at the Palace of the Legion of Honor in San Francisco. I was looking at a book illustrated by Sonia Delaunay, of Blaise Cendrars’ La Prose du Transsibérien et de la Petite Jehanne de France. “Dis, Blaise, sommes-nous bien loin de Montmartre?” it asks.
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