I saw the Pompei exhibit today at the Natural History Museum. A poet would write a moody, uncomfortable poem about what they'd seen--a couple embraced in death; interminably tiny tomb relics; museum-goers stepping in front of you to get the best view of devastation; and of course the trompe l'oeil frescoes (always a solid go-to for poetry). Since I write prose, the best I can manage is this blog entry, and hope to store away something--the hippies on the grass with their perfectly hippie dog?--for a story.
Also, happy birthday to my friend Erin, who got gypped by an hour.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
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