This minute I've not been able not been
you know simply not been like positively being dead
able to hear your voice though having dialed
you at home at studio at bar. I am not frantic,
I hope, at not being able to catch your sigh
of boredom, not I, not the number who knows all
about the city's darling diversions. I never expected
you to speak to me having once illuminated to me
with your long exotic thumbnail my weakness
which I wear "cross at the war" elegantly.
I hope that your blue eyes are slanting into music
by Ben Weber, because I should have only reminded you of
a cello concerto of our old midsummer anguish,
vieux jeux like falling out of trees into a collector's album.
And upbraided you for my expecting the absence
which like a vulgar newspaper horoscope has happened
to Jane. Where are you? where are you? where are you?
Frank O'Hara
October 26 1952 10:30 O'Clock
Donald Allen, editor
The Collected Poems of
Frank O'Hara
Antoni Tàpies
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