August 20, 2012 § 2 Comments

my quietness has a woman in it
and I carry her, heavily, through the streets
to Frank O’Hara’s house
we ask him:
why did you write the words that stirred my feelings
into a hot red soup of passion,
the letters floating in, like blind men drowning
he tells us:
when you are as colourless as a night sky
when you are as troubled as I;
words will carry you home when you become
too heavy for them


§ 2 Responses to justice:

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