for Frank O’Hara
the pink background separates the stencils.
their poses. flat on purpose to reach ambition.
most lean in with fabricated politesse to
the last clean shirt—a profile in contrapposto.
his face smeared. hands quiet. thighs engaged.
ready to hold forth against statuary or rigid
frontality or plot twists in finnish gibberish.
to punctuate the fixed stars. their weights.
how long their light takes to reach us.
behind him, implied windows frame a city in sepia.
careful to not upstage what he presents—a thing
that’s the least sum it can be and still be itself.
he’s surrounded by low voltage. his corps de ballet.
in the middle of real lives. tough cookies passing
mash notes and clubbable in that outcast way.
or cartoon balloons tethered in storage by heft—
narrative replicas ready to float in his parade.