Читать книгу The Poetry of Frank O'Hara - Frank O’Hara - Страница 8

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At night Chinamen jump

on Asia with a thump

while in our willful way

we, in secret, play

affectionate games and bruise

our knees like China's shoes.

The birds push apples through

grass the moon turns blue,

these apples roll beneath

our buttocks like a heath

full of Chinese thrushes

flushed from China's bushes.

As we love at night

birds sing out of sight,

Chinese rhythms beat

through us in our heat,

the apples and the birds

move us like soft words,

we couple in the grace

of that mysterious race.