alfred eisenstaedt

How to Get There
by Frank O’Hara

White the October air, no snow, easy to breathe
beneath the sky, lies, lies everywhere writhing and
gaspingclutching and tangling, it is not easy to breathe
lies building their tendrils into dim figures
who disappear down corridors in west-side apartments
into childhood’s proof of being wanted, not
abandoned, kidnappedbetrayal staving off loneliness, I see the fog lunge in
and hide it
where are you?here I am on the sidewalkunder the moonlike lamplight...