Alone at night <br />in the wet city <br /> <br />the country's wit <br />is not memorable. <br /> <br />The wind has blown <br />all the trees down <br /> <br />but these anxieties <br />remain erect, being <br /> <br />the heart's deliberate <br />chambers of hurt <br /> <br />and fear whether <br />from a green apartment <br /> <br />seeming diamonds or <br />from an airliner <br /> <br />seeming fields. It's <br />not simple or tidy <br /> <br />though in rows of <br />rows and numbered; <br /> <br />the literal drifts <br />colorfully and <br /> <br />the hair is combed <br />with bridges, all <br /> <br />compromises leap <br />to stardom and lights. <br /> <br />If alone I am <br />able to love it, <br /> <br />the serious voices, <br />the panic of jobs, <br /> <br />it is sweet to me. <br />Far from burgeoning <br /> <br />verdure, the hard way <br />in this street.<br /><br />Frank O'Hara<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/1951/
