The Poster of Frank O’Hara in the Kitchen of Judith’s Flat
Pale-blue fringing
undertone
of fat-free milk,
the sinister-fey oblique
new band I’ve
never heard

plus butter-honey
soap, another
person’s
life in books,
and flightpath leading-edge
whistle of air-fuel burn.

When written on
your table wobbles, tilts
a full ten feet
distant
from the window to make
pictures with.

The flowers
in the blown-glass vase
shake, shrug
and say no more
while
in the kitchen

Frank is smoking
telephoning,
caught
like that like
what he wrote -
borne in on,
unaffected.


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