I address myself to the poets who are here
friends Frank O’Hara’s not dead he strolls
all cruisy and nelly along Vicksburg’s levee
watching the river rise and I too tiresomely
got up in last year’s habits and you also
flowering in sunlit windows wanting us
to put you to our noses and make quiet
noises with our right nostrils O we hope
you don’t mind a little hyperbole it’s cold
and blindingly bright today the city holds
its breath like a frozen fern here where one
lives a few yards from friends who speak
the language of Frank O’Hara all wobbly
all droopy like these old buildings and streets
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