1951
Alone at night
in the wet city
the country's wit
is not memorable.
The wind has blown
all the trees down
but these anxieties
remain erect, being
the heart's deliberate
chambers of hurt
and fear whether
from a green apartment
seeming diamonds or
from an airliner
seeming fields. It's
not simple or tidy
though in rows of
rows and numbered;
the literal drifts
colorfully and
the hair is combed
with bridges, all
compromises leap
to stardom and lights.
If alone I am
able to love it,
the serious voices,
the panic of jobs,
it is sweet to me.
Far from burgeoning
verdure, the hard way
in this street.
poem by Frank O'Hara
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