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The
opals hiding your lids
as you sleep, as you ride
ponies
mysteriously, spring to bloom
like the blue
flowers of autumn
each nine o'clock. And
curls
tumble languorously towards
the yawning
rubber band, tan,
your hand pressing all
that
riotous black sleep into
the quiet form
of daylight
and its sunny disregard for
the
luminous volutions, oh!
and the budding
waltzes
we swoop through in nights.
Before dawn
you roar with
your eyes shut, unsmiling,
your
volcanic flesh hides
everything from the
watchman,
and the tendrils of dreams
strangle
policemen running by
too slowly to escape
you,
the racing vertiginous waves
of your
murmuring need. But
he is day's guardian
saint
that policeman, and leaning
from your
open window you ask
him what to dress to wear
and
to comb your hair modestly,
for that is
now your mode.
Only by chance tripping on
stairs
do you repeat the dance, and
then, in the
perfect variety of
subdued, impeccably
disguised,
white black pink blue saffron
and
golden ambiance, do we find
the nightly savage, in a
trance.
Frank O'Hara
Read
poems about / on: pink,
autumn,
running,
sleep,
dance,
spring,
hair,
flower,
dream
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Frank O'Hara 
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Frank O'Hara
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