Читать книгу The Poetry of Frank O'Hara - Frank O’Hara - Страница 16

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You do not always know what I am feeling.

Last night in the warm spring air while I was

blazing my tirade against someone who doesn't interest

me, it was love for you that set me afire,

and isn't it odd? for in rooms full of

strangers my most tender feelings writhe and

bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,

isn't there

an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside

the bed? And someone you love enters the room

and says wouldn't

you like the eggs a little

different today?

And when they arrive they are

just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather

is holding.