after Frank O’Hara
Haven’t you ever fallen down at the pure pleasure
of making another weep to suicide,
the applause of long-nailed kisses, breathless morning,
& everything, dust?
Of course we are falling over, our throats full of morning.
We are larks, making flights to rooftops,
intimate in the hour of early morning. We are falling
heavens. It is enough to drive one to rough hands,
fingers upon lips, in the hour of dust. Turbulent,
we clasped everything so tightly. Our throats
are falling apart with applause.
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David Rawson’s book Fuckhead is available from Punctum Books.