Sunday Verse
Joseph Cornell
by Frank O'Hara
Into a sweeping meticulously—
detailed disaster the violet
light pours. It's not a sky,
it's a room. And in the open
field a glass of absinthe is
fluttering its song of India.
Prairie winds circle mosquitoes.
You are always a little too
young to understand. He is
bored with his sense of the
past, the artist. Out of the
prescient rock in his heart
he has spread a land without
flowers of near distances.
Joseph Cornell.