WEBVTT

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I'm going to close with
two very short pieces.

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I must say that I'm most
honored to be here today,

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reading with my
friend and colleague,

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Steve Orlen, who,
for years, for years

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entertained an aesthetic
argument with me

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about the virtues of
the narrative poem.

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And we fought
vigorously over this.

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And of course, I was
fighting for the lyric poem.

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Great, great difference
between the two, although they

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mix happily and well.

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And I'm very, very honored to
know that Steve Orlen is now

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writing lyric poetry,
although I must confess

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that I have completely
abandoned the form

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and he was right all along.

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[LAUGHTER]

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"Where are we?

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Been airlifted
into a remote area,

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a theater of operations
where everyone is a suspect?

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Everything is suspect?

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Or are we invited
into a moment of grace

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where it rains
little copper bells?

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Perhaps at one point, we might
have been responsible for them

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and been changed by them.

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Our grandmother hears
them now, losing her mind,

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where it rains
little copper bells.

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How they sound, resound,
sound, frightened, and rain

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before they are forgotten.

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The name of the mother she
has forgotten is Grace.

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Grandmother smiles.

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She stops smiling.

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The little copper bells are
everything to her and are gone.

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A gong, a teaspoon against a
porcelain cup, a little melting

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sugar cube."

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"Alzheimer's Surreal Time."

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