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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.
Frank O'Hara
Read poems about / on: moon,
night,
love
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Frank O'Hara
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Frank O'Hara
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