They are replacing their back fence next door and all afternoon the air has smelled of freshly sawed wood while the saw itself has buzzed like some out-sized summer insect. I think I'm bitten. My head is like wood becoming sawdust and fence. The replacement fence is a bit taller than the replaced fence and hides some structures. Now I will see fence and what grows above the fence and I will see sky but there will be slightly less town in my view. I sort of like this, even though I won't know what's going on behind the fence when I hear noises. I'll no longer know what or who the dog across the alley is barking at. Well of course I never could see at night anyway and I'm up more at night than in day. But right now I'm looking for the long summer evening and its cooling and the freshened air smelling like other than sawdust. Then I'll hear no buzzing and the darkness will conceal the concealing of things and everything will be fine. Yes it will fine. Fine I say.
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.