emPo

from were it not for this relentless joy,
part I


“Yes, I miss his kissing lips”: cute prey
neither lithely lettered nor
upon my tongue.
I would scoop you out of crevices

and mean no more than this. No remorse
for my file of scribbles:
I am in love.
It should have been true, and said.



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Footnotes/Excuses
(1) Frank O'Hara the favorite NY poet guiltlessly and gleefully left us poems on napkins.
(2) Some kind of laryngitis coming on.
(3) That flaccid style of many poems in the New Yorker, I detest it but it's contagious. Or I'm getting old.