An Account of Bringing the Sun to New Jersey

I sat on the chair in my

Room and looked at the winter sun.

Move! Please, just bring yourself

Close enough to shed the blankets

And buy me a few days sleeping

In tall grass.

I’m as tall as Mayakovsky aren’t I?

And certainly as frightening when

My hair is short.

He hung still, his ochre

Staining me a heatless yellow.

It took him three months

To descend and when he did

His voice was hoarse and low.

Late March, he said, left him

Tired as a bird migrating

(Under his own heat) Northward,

And he hoped he could pull

A chair up to my patio table

And rest for a moment.

“You know, you’re only the

Third poet I’ve ever spoken to

And this time it wasn’t even my

Decision — you called as though

I had no choice but to come down.

You know Frank O’Hara? I woke

Him up to dispel his blues,

Yours I could see from all the

Way out in my winter depths.”

I sat and nodded, wiping sweat

From my brow and squinting at

The rays licking the backyard

Paving stone.

Sorry to bring you

Somewhere so glamorless,

Perhaps I could follow you

To Fire Island?

“You stay put, what do you

Think I visited you for? There

Is a saying where I come from,

That you take a shine to someone.

You glowed even in the winter,

Like a beacon wrapped deep in

Snow. Keep on, and shed the

Wraps, it is only a matter of

Time until your words will move

The earth as they moved me.”

The sun got up just as he’d done

For Mayakovsky, for O’Hara, and

Fixed himself in the sky before

Returning to full strength.

With the light I could swear I felt

The grass warm underneath me as

I sat, its blades gowing to meet me,

And the flowers open just

Slightly in their brown clay pots,

And the trees sway in a warm breeze,

Soundless and just for a moment.