Once, in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy,
In the flash of gold heels in the hard pavement
Now see I
That warmth’s the very stuff of poetry.
Oh God, make small
The old star-eaten blanket of the sky,
That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie.
-Pound
You do not always know what I am feeling.
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t
interest
me, it was love for you that set me
afire,
and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
writhe and
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
isn’t there
an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn’t
you like the eggs a little
different today?
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding
–
We come into the room, the windows
are empty, the sun is weak
and slippery on the ice. And a
sob comes, simply because it is
coldest of the things we know
-Frank O’Hara
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