from the mind of david harris
Bergotte appears as a collection of epigraphs for my letters
long exhalations burst through at times of great truth given immanence
Bergotte’s musical outpouring– infatuation
but of Bloch, his recommendation of Bergotte was true
my parents wished for middle class morality instead of Bloch
Bloch denies reality and arrives muddy or wet– is he insane?
grandfather banned Bloch– “it’s not Jews as a race just your friend Jews.”
finer poetry means absolutely nothing says Bloch, to my doubts
a dream’s woman appears on a Gothic porch– reading Bergotte
soldiers gone now– tide of humanity leaves servants watching
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