It is even in prose, I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven't mentioned orange yet It's twelve poems, I call it oranges. - Frank O'Hara

The beauty of America, neither cool jazz nor devoured Egyptian
heroes, lies in
lives in the darkness I inhabit in the midst of sterile millions.

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.<p>The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.<p>It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space.