Thinking Of Poet Frank O'Hara In The Heat

The pressing
Upon my face in dusty
Cabbage yellow-and-white
Butterflies, a bit ragged in the wings,
Upon the bones
Underneath my eyes,
The pressing upon, of
The heat,
My inner source of breath for a moment Lost---
Until all feels dry and gritty.
Feel the paper fading to yellow.

~ each day
proves
less and
less ~

Discovering the pronunciation
Of "Fanatic", that small
Irish in me that is not, is, pressing
Upon those flat bones where
Once, upon shades of
Red or white,
Pending…

~ North: Quebec City
South: Charleston
West: Philadelphia
East:
Of course… ~

And pressing upon my face,
A portrait, a painting of…yes, now…ah,
The same a book and that
Intermingling Heat.
Pressing upon me, Life is…
All, simply.
Nothing else, pressing down
Upon my hair: shoulders:
The flat bones of my
Face.
Below my eyes.

~ East.
Once in heat.
Every-day-now
Presently-
East ~