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76 f r o m t e n t m a k i n g a l d h a l l d o n i s f a l l i n g d o w n Donald Hall is falling, and I cannot catch him. Not seeing the little stepdown at the bottom of the slanted chapel aisle, he falls in slowmotion, to his knees, then sidewise to his shoulder. His dear head does not hit. I’m OK. There is a long getting up, three-quarters of the audience there. He raises one hand in mock triumph. This is the first poetry reading of his eighth decade, magnificent, tender, broken open with naked grief. Afterward, after the signing and the jokes and the serious student advice, he and I sit beaming our eyes at each other, side by side at the Holiday Inn bar. What I most loved about the night was that from the fall to now, I took his arm with both my hands wherever we went, out the chapel, down the steps, along the walk, across the street around the corner to the Globe, up the stairs, down the stairs. I walked him like an older brother who’d had a stroke, and he let me. We talked so sweetly shuffling along. He 70, me 61. He is absolutely fine without anyone holding to him, 77 f r o m t e n t m a k i n g but it was so precious that muttering and tottering around the September Athens night. I recommend it. Fall flat before the altar of poemgiving and see if a friend is not tenderized into some fresh foolishness the two of you will never outlive. ...

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