“My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent”

Like an equatorial summer’s day,
the air rises, visible, a cellophane apparition
screening the houses that encrust
the distant hills as if barnacles.

He stands, framing this vista
with his torso, white, like the margins
of a Polaroid, nary a scribble on it,
no record of when’s and where’s
nor any maudlin remarks, stark,
like my quietness, and the man in it.

He is transparent.

* title taken from Frank O’ Hara’s In Memory of My Feelings


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