Gamin

All the roofs are wet

and underneath smoke

that piles softly in

streets, tongues are

on top of each other

mulling over the night.
We lay against each other

like banks of violets

while the slate slips

off the roof into the

garden of the old lady

next door. She is my
enemy. She hates cats

airplanes and my self

as if we were memories

of war. Bah! When you

are close I thumb my

nose at her and laugh.

—Frank O'Hara