walking around all day in my one piece swimsuit

it could be worse. it could be a bikini. think of it. cold, blue limbs. tickly long, wet grass around my ankles. itchy. the grey skies opening up and drenching my already cold body. it could be worse. a hungry empty stomach. instead it would be more fun dressing for the occasion. think long dr who scarves wrapped around long necks. warm jackets buttoned right-all-the-way up, boots fending off cold feet, long socks -stripey of course, and a cute little hat, jauntily placed, of course. welcome winter. we've missed you.

c h a l k talk

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walking to work: frank o'hara

It's going to be the sunny side

from now

on. Get out, all of you.

This is my traffic over the night

and how

should I range my pride

each oceanic morning like a cutter

if I

confuse the dark world is round

round who

in my eyes at morning saves

nothing from nobody? I'm becoming

the street.

Who are you in love with?

me?

Straight against the light I cross.

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being stung by a bee on the lexington avenue local: john hollander

Ouch! etcetera

Aside, and then likewise the

Conclusion that I

Had indeed not been

Stabbed in the left shoulder with

A knitting needle

By some demented

Wretch whose misery I'd be

Momentarily

Too angry to spare

Any real sympathy for

(Though I knew too well

Life had undone so

Many) sitting in the jammed

Car heading uptown

Through the acutely

Nonrural subway tunnel:

Said conclusion drawn

From a subsequent

Nonmechanical humming

In my ear accompanied

By an actual glimpse

Of the creature who would not

Live long buzzing off,

As it were and as

A matter of fact as well—

What some idiot

Of the literal

Might mean by rus in urbe...

All of those aside,

It was only weeks

After that I realized

That the very (most

Nonliteral) point

Of the sting was that the thought

Buzzed through my mind some

Days later that I

Was as one who, once stung by

A gold-banded

Bee in a fable,

Might have thereupon acquired

As a gift—not from

Apollo himself,

But from one of his nine girls—

A peculiar kind

Of wisdom: but of

Which sort, and from which of them—

Which of the Muses—

Let alone what tied

That bunch to that misplaced bee

(Poor lost bee! I had

No anger for her

As I might have had for the

Knitting-needle nut)

And what deep cosmic

Questions had hung on this I

Could not imagine.

But although with no

Gift nor Muses nor indeed

An available

Apollo, I would

Come to conclude that even

The subsequent brief

Sting of the sudden

Awareness of them and their

Moot irrelevance

Was as much of a

Gift from those nine sisters as

Is ever given.
1952
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if you wish we'd stop making a splash, tell us. if you would like to come frolick in the waves with us, winter or summer, tell us that too.

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sticky jam on cold toast. it tastes too good, of course it's with tea too. on tv there's a cardboard elephant dancing on a wire. it's rickety in its frame, but i remember it well from my own childhood. dear diary, i should be writing more, but instead i'm reading fashion magazines and daydreaming about my next pair of shoes, my new summer dress, the cake i'd like to bake. the new pillowcase i thrifted. i'm doing anything but what i'm supposed to be doing... and then there's the swimsuit. stripes or polka dots this season?

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