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11/22/2009 1:20:32 PM

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POEM

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The opals hiding your lids
  as you sleep, as you ride ponies
mysteriously, spring to bloom
  like the blue flowers of autumn

each nine o'clock. And curls
  tumble languorously towards
the yawning rubber band, tan,
  your hand pressing all that

riotous black sleep into
  the quiet form of daylight
and its sunny disregard for
  the luminous volutions, oh!

and the budding waltzes
  we swoop through in nights.
Before dawn you roar with
  your eyes shut, unsmiling,

your volcanic flesh hides
  everything from the watchman,
and the tendrils of dreams
  strangle policemen running by

too slowly to escape you,
  the racing vertiginous waves
of your murmuring need. But
  he is day's guardian saint

that policeman, and leaning
  from your open window you ask
him what to dress to wear and
  to comb your hair modestly,

for that is now your mode.
  Only by chance tripping on stairs
do you repeat the dance, and
  then, in the perfect variety of

subdued, impeccably disguised,
  white black pink blue saffron
and golden ambiance, do we find
  the nightly savage, in a trance.

Frank O'Hara

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