Present by Frank O'Hara
The stranded gulch
below Grand Central
the gentle purr of cab tires in snow
and hidden stars
tears on the windshield
torn inexorably away in whining motion
and the dark thoughts which surround neon
in Union Square I see you for a moment
red green yellow searchlights cutting through
falling flakes, head bent to the wind
wet and frowning, melancholy, trying
I know perfectly well where you walk to
and that we'll meet in even greater darkness
later and will be warm
so our cross
of paths will not be just muddy footprints
in the morning
not like celestial bodies'
yearly passes, nothing pushes us away
from each other
even now I can lean
forward across the square and see
your surprised grey look become greener
as I wipe the city's moisture from
your face
and you shake the snow
off onto my shoulder, light as a breath
where the quarrels and vices of
estranged companions weighed so bitterly
and accidentally
before, I saw you on
the floor of my life walking slowly
that time in summer rain stranger and
nearer
to become a way of feeling
that is not painful casual or diffuse
and seems to explore some peculiar insight
of the heavens for its favorite bodies
in the mixed up air
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