domingo, 24 de fevereiro de 2013

Nocturne, by Frank O'Hara


There’s nothing worse
 than feeling bad and not
being able to tell you.
Not because you’d kill me
or it would kill you, or
we don’t love each other.
It’s space. The sky is grey
and clear, with pink
and blue shadows under each cloud.
A tiny airliner drops its
 specks over the UN Building.
My eyes, like millions of
glassy squares, merely reflect.
Everything sees through me,
in the daytime I’m too hot
and at night I freeze; I’m
built the wrong way for the
 river and a mild gale would
break every fiber in me.
Why don’t I go east and west
Instead of north and south?
It’s the architect’s fault.
And in a few years I’ll be
useless, not even an office
building. Because you have
no telephone, and live so
 far away; the Pepsi-Cola  sign,
the seagulls and the noise.

Frank O’Hara.



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