Waiting for a call that didn’t happen
I am sitting on the back porch with Frank O’Hara (Collected)
when a goldfinch lands beside my head on the porch rail,
lands so neatly so instantly so whoosh
with all his yellowness yellowing
and all his himness packed to the brim of him
that a wave of coolness
comes past my left cheek as surprise cool as
a word we don’t have a word for
or my left cheek briefly
blue.