Gordon, but not Gordon. They have opened the back door. A more recent poem he says, but doesn’t mention the cold that floats, that rolls in on us like the fog through the golden gate, but not like the fog. The poem rolls in and few of us realize where it comes from, eyes forward because Gordon is before us, before the poems, Gordon is reading his poems, and we are sitting on the floor.
29 November 1974, Primrose Cafe, Monte Rio