You do not always know what I am feeling.
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t
me, it was love for you that set me
and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn’t
you like the eggs a little
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
- Frank O’Hara
It has been your skin
since May and I have nothing
to show for it except bruises
rising like electrodes
on my chest.
There is never
any sugar under my clothes
though I promised sweetness each time,
like my body could become
an epithet, could be repeated and so
lose meaning, as heavy as Dresden
or Chartres, China blue. When we wait
for each other we are
not modern, we do not know
the ship has sunk, the train has left,
the light has snapped.
Born overnight and not separated
entirely until morning; globes
dimming slower and slower;
new blood in new places.
The narrow stairs and the lock
I forget how to open.