in traveling letters from you I feel that we too could visit Barcelona, or a far off European museum filled with righteous Athenian romances layered with Greek sculptures. In lieu of studying the curves of their form we’d rather find ourselves taking in our bodies, yours being far more interesting, forever, than those all beautiful, ivory, and headless.
When I receive Frank O’ Hara in mornings over coffee rolling off your tongue and into a black roasted cloud; I smell even the greyest of overcasts—- our bodies pressing against solemn and still in some bright yellow cab wedged between the bustling bikes and buses of New York City. It is only appropriate because you are as aesthetically striking as a skyscraper, because your mind is as vibrant as every neon light guiding me like a moth straight back into your shape.
When I receive Frank O’ Hara in our first apartment, may it be ideal or busted, begin with one block of prose framed against the entrance wall as the eggs cook contrarily, its yoke the orange color of evening light. Warm near the ashtrays centered for our guests filtering to and fro. Small in pacts and lovely like neighborhood flowers. We’ll press our bellies side by side, the corners of our bed holding and map Madrid, or even further to Japan, with our fingers tracing like constellations upon the rest of the empty spatial plaster. Left that way for only his words and the rest that is left between us; all that is naked and unspoken.