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No, he is not alive. He died at forty, but he is awake, in his poetry. He cannot write you your poems, his body is sleeping, yet not, in his poetry. There he is dancing. That is all.
Dear Frank O'Hara,
Are you alive?
I've read your poems and know that you are.
But are you available in person?
I'd like to ask for more poems..
When music is far enough awaythe eyelid does not often moveand objects are still as lavenderwithout breath or distant rejoinder.The cloud is then so subtly draggedaway by the silver flying machine