But All We Love and Are Grows Different, Weeps
What mention of the King?
Sleep holds its own head in the fire
which passes from the air conditioning
to my seat. Entire nations are forced
into terrible systems of belief; makeovers
are at the same old stand buying bagels.
I see linen trousers, soiled, in the discount aisle
just as the words “I’ll always love you”
settle on the table like spittle after a sneeze.
We are one in the complicated foreground of space.
And that’s not even something I could have said
out of the mild pleasantness of disaster.
I have a harp on my knee
and the clauses are truly happy
as the telephone cavorts like an anti-Cocteau movement
slain on the steps of Cappadocia
where many teeth have chewed a little piece
of the lover’s flesh. There are so many fees
reaching toward me from a hidden city,
white swan. Temptation is an awful virus
and the courtiers are so prudently habituated.
seed text: The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara