Vignette for Frank O’Hara

The Indian summer afternoon was bleeding out On its flat earth stretcher With no hope of resuscitation With no priest for last rites And something about that play of light Slanting through yellowing leaves Made me want to ouija board my grandmother For folksy instructions on canning On preserving the last of the season’s okra Field peas and squash and peppers But my workmate was before me Swirling her worries around inside a coffee cup So I found myself listening … Continue reading Vignette for Frank O’Hara