I cut off all my hair,
one day before Halloween in 1938.
"I'll be Charlie Chaplin,
and you'll be Lita Grey."
He looked at me through his
crooked Russian fingers,
and his smile grew
in me like a child's
The silence
perfumed the haunted
little Brooklyn midnight,
while some musician
tortured a violin on stage.
The dazzling fragility of a woman
makes Mr. Chaplin tired....
Read More