"Digression on Number 1, 1948"
I am ill today but I am not
too ill. I am not ill at all.
It is a perfect day, warm
for winter, cold for fall.
A fine day for seeing. I see
ceramics, during lunch hour, by
Miro, and I see the sea by Leger;
light, complicated Metzingers
and a rude awakening by Brauner;
a little table by Picasso, pink.
I am tired today but I am not
too tired. I am not tired at all.
There is the Pollock, white, harm
will not fall, his perfect hand
and the many short voyages. They'll
never fence the silver range.
Stars are out and there is sea
enough beneath the glistening earth
to bear me toward the future
which is not so dark. I see.
Found in the Frank O'Hara selected poems into which I often dip, earlier this evening, savouring a solitary frozen yogurt outside on Faraday Street, listening to Patty Griffin - specifically, her lovely, poignant "Making Pies".
I am ill today but I am not
too ill. I am not ill at all.
It is a perfect day, warm
for winter, cold for fall.
A fine day for seeing. I see
ceramics, during lunch hour, by
Miro, and I see the sea by Leger;
light, complicated Metzingers
and a rude awakening by Brauner;
a little table by Picasso, pink.
I am tired today but I am not
too tired. I am not tired at all.
There is the Pollock, white, harm
will not fall, his perfect hand
and the many short voyages. They'll
never fence the silver range.
Stars are out and there is sea
enough beneath the glistening earth
to bear me toward the future
which is not so dark. I see.
Found in the Frank O'Hara selected poems into which I often dip, earlier this evening, savouring a solitary frozen yogurt outside on Faraday Street, listening to Patty Griffin - specifically, her lovely, poignant "Making Pies".
