The blue stairs lead up to heaven, or a sort of french aesthetic replacement
heaven one can only reach via an escalier, clutching one's blue guitar. She
is reassuringly flanked by Popes on the first three steps because that's as
far as they got - she is echoing Stevens: organised religion has had its
day, they have no real authority, and she, with him, is working up to the
next stage.
I have a dog-earred first edition, which mentions no museum (unless I missed
it) but it's a beautiful poem, although its pseudo-religious aestheticism
is, I think, cobblers.
Any good?
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