Letter to Frank O'Hara

It had been raining for ten years--
just after our vows too, when the life
of the party shouted "Drop dead."
What aplomb! All those faithless Springs
suddenly worthless. Years of abandonment
counting for nothing. Oh horrors of
enchantment, beauty of truculence.
You can always depend upon the hostility of lovers
but we, a glamorous, shuddering chorus,
eyes averted, move en pointe past
the confessional's lurid glow,
that peep-show of self-pity. Really, Mary!

As is our holy yawns don't prove
we're simply riddled with purity
and we'll float softly, silently
as the dreams of inconsolable rhinoceri,
pitiable as the tears of lost seagulls,
sure as Adam's apple pie, straight to heaven.
The angels' impatience says we've
all prayed for too little and they
can't wait to scold us. God's redecorating.
He wants all his darlings back.

--Steve Turtell