Sometimes I don’t understand who, or what,
Frank O’Hara was writing about.
But that’s sort of the point,
isn’t it?

His poems are so beautiful.
They make me think of C–,
and I want to go back to London
and invite him to the Tate Modern.

Maybe afterward we’d share
a Coke
and it will be more beautiful
than all the paintings
I had looked at
and not understood.

Remember our embrace
in that doorway in London?

I remember everything.

We were so tragic,
a poem I didn’t quite get.

But still, I love to read it.

written November 20, 2010

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