Wet heat drifts through the afternoon
like a campus dog, a fraternity ghost
waiting to stay home from football games.
The arches are empty clear to the sky.
Except for the leaves: those lashes of our
thinking and dreaming and drinking sight.
The spherical radiance, the Old English
look, the sum of our being, “hath perced
to the roote” all our springs and falls
and now rolls over our limpness, a daily
dragon. We lose our health in a love
of color, drown in a fountain of myriads,
as simply as children. It is too hot,
our birth was given up to screaming. Our
life on these street lawns seems silent.
The leaves chatter their comparisons
to the wind and the sky fills up
before we are out of bed. O infinite
our siestas! adobe effigies in a land
that is sick of us and our tanned flesh.
The wind blows towards us particularly
the sobbing of our dear friends on both
coasts. We are sick of living and afraid
that death will not be by water, o sea.
Along the walks and shaded ways
pregnant women look snidely at children.
Two weeks ago they were told, in these
selfsame pools of trefoil, “the market
for emeralds is collapsing,” “chlorophyll
shines in your eyes,” “the sea’s misery
is progenitor of the dark moss which hides
on the north side of trees and cries.”
What do they think of slim kids now?
and how, when the summer’s gong of day
and night slithers towards their sweat
and towards the nest of their arms
and thighs, do they feel about children
whose hides are pearly with days of swimming?
Do they mistake these fresh drops for tears?
The wind works over these women constantly!
trying, perhaps, to curdle their milk
or make their spring unseasonably fearful,
season they face with dread and bright eyes,
The leaves, wrinkled or shiny like apples,
wave women courage and sigh, a void temperature.
The alternatives of summer do not remove
us from this place. The fainting into skies
from a diving board, the express train to
Detroit’s damp bars, the excess of affection
on the couch near an open window or a Bauhaus
fire escape, the lazy regions of stars, all
are strangers. Like Mayakovsky read on steps
of cool marble, or Yeats danced in a theatre
of polite music. The classroon day of dozing
and grammar, the partial eclipse of the head
in the row in front of the head of poplars,
sweet Syrinx! last out the summer in a stay
of iron. Workmen loiter before urinals, stare
out windows at girders tightly strapped to clouds.
And in the morning we whimper as we cook
an egg, so far from fluttering sands and azure!
The violent No! of the sun
burns the forehead of hills.
Sand fleas arrive from Salt Lake
and most of the theatres close.
The leaves roll into cigars, or
it seems our eyes stick together
in sleep. O forest, o brook of
spice, o cool gaze of strangers!
the city tumbles towards autumn
in a convulsion of tourists
and teachers. We dance in the dark,
forget the anger of what we blame
on the day. Children toss and murmur
as a rumba blankets their trees and
beckons their stars closer, older, now.
We move o’er the world, being so much here.
It’s as if Poseidon left off counting
his waters for a moment! In the fields
the silence is music like the moon.
The bullfrogs sleep in their hairy caves.
across the avenue a trefoil lamp
of the streets tosses luckily.
The leaves, finally, love us! and
moonrise! we die upon the sun.
— Frank O’Hara