Читать книгу The Poetry of Frank O'Hara - Frank O’Hara - Страница 11

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We dust the walls.

And of course we are weeping larks

falling all over the heavens with our shoulders clasped

in someone's armpits, so tightly! and our throats are full.

Haven't you ever fallen down at Christmas

and didn't it move everyone who saw you?

isn't that what the tree means? the pure pleasure

of making weep those whom you cannot move by your flaights!

It's enough to drive one to suicide.

And the rooftops are falling apart like the applause

of rough, long-nailed, intimate, roughened-by-kiss, hands.

Fingers more breathless than a tongue laid upon the lips

in the hour of sunlight, early morning, before the mist rolls

in from the sea; and out there everything is turbulent and green.