Frank O’Hara leaves the Museum of Modern Art
Like a painting’s space, infinite happenings and neverendings,
or the seventh side of a cube. The museum says, don’t go,
stay in us. Outside is inside and the revolving doors are ecstatic
to have him for their moment, yet ever so sad to let him go
they give and take and come and go like a pulse, and refuse to cry.
The city greets him with eyes and ears and arms and a drink.
The surface of glass reflects back on itself and back on itself
again, women and men on the street are obliviously convexed.
The slippery glass says, stay a little while longer, see
all these people we hold them for you and through us, behind
us is everyone, it reflects back on itself and back again
it reflects back on itself and in, and now it’s everyone except him.
The street holds him now and the city holds the street. The city
says, go anywhere you like because the clock says it’s fine. I’m
all yours and you mine. That’s what the city says as Frank O’Hara
steps out through the doors of the Museum of Modern Art.