HATCHETING THE HAMMER
Frank O'Hara was killed on that
beach out on Fire Island. I'm
never sure what happened, but
it was late and some sort of
emergency beach-vehicle just
ran him down, to death. Or,
a beach taxi, I've also read. He
lingered, and some newspapers
howled, but no one knew what
to make of what had occurred.
-
He was so urban, all New York;
and urbane too, I'd figure. How
such things happen is far beyond
me. They talk like of God and of
fate, but I never know. Were I, or
you, to walk out the door tomorrow
and be hit by a crashing plane,
would that be any different? Our
final, non-poetic words, 'I never
saw this coming?'
-
There's no draft by which to set
this in, or introduce the essay for.
It's quiet stuff, and need be said
alone. ("Frank O'Hara is not at
home, for he's been run down,
by a beach Jeep, alone.")...
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