. .
but everything convulses under the silver tent of Spain
the dark
the dry
the shark-bite sand-colored mouth
of Europa, the raped and swarthy goddess of speed! o Spain
to be in your arms again
and the dung-bright olives
bluely smiling at the quivering angulas
smudge
against the wall of mind
where the silver turns
against the railroad tracks
and breath goes down
and down and down
into the cool moonlight
where the hotel room is on wheels
and there all buttocks are black and blue
dun
is the color of the streets and sacks of beer
where dopes lead horses with a knight on each
do you care if the rotunda is sparrows
caught behind the arras of distaste and sorrow
did you
wait, wait very long
or was it simply dark and you standing there
I saw the end of a very long tale
being delivered in the Rastro on Sunday morning
and you were crying, and I was crying right away too
all Retiro confided in us
in those betrayals
we never meant but had to do, the leaves
the foolish boats like High School
before the Alhambra
before the echo of your voice
I have done other things but never against you
now I am going home
I am watering the park for Violetera
I am cherishing the black and white of your love
Frank O'Hara
The Collected Poems
of Frank O'Hara
Madrid
[fragment]
August, 1961
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