My Sad Self

To Frank O’Hara

Sometimes when my eyes are red
I go up on top of the RCA Building
  and gaze at my world, Manhattan—
  my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,
  lofts, beds, coldwater flats
—on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,
  its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men
  walking the size of specks of wool—
  Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,
  sun go down over New Jersey where I was born
  & Paterson where I played with ants—
  my later loves on 15th Street,
  my greater loves of Lower East Side,
  my once fabulous amours in the Bronx
  faraway—
  paths crossing in these hidden streets,
  my history summed up, my absences
  and ecstasies in Harlem—
  —sun shining down on all I own
  in one eyeblink to the horizon
  in my last eternity—
  matter is water.

Sad,
  I take the elevator and go
  down, pondering,
and walk on the pavements staring into all man’s
  plateglass, faces,
  questioning after who loves,
  and stop, bemused
  in front of an automobile shopwindow
  standing lost in calm thought,
  traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me
  waiting for a moment when ...

Time to go home & cook supper & listen to
  the romantic war news on the radio
  ... all movement stops
& I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,
  tenderness flowing thru the buildings,
  my fingertips touching reality’s face,
  my own face streaked with tears in the mirror
  of some window—at dusk—
  where I have no desire—
  for bonbons—or to own the dresses or Japanese
  lampshades of intellection—

Confused by the spectacle around me,
  Man struggling up the street
  with packages, newspapers,
  ties, beautiful suits
  toward his desire
  Man, woman, streaming over the pavements
  red lights clocking hurried watches &
  movements at the curb—

And all these streets leading
  so crosswise, honking, lengthily,
  by avenues
  stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums
  thru such halting traffic
  screaming cars and engines
so painfully to this
  countryside, this graveyard
  this stillness
  on deathbed or mountain
  once seen
  never regained or desired
  in the mind to come
where all Manhattan that I’ve seen must disappear.