Frank O'Hara, I have sardines and oranges

I see that not everyone is snip-snapping poems into paperclips,
holding memories in their place, quietly tucked away in manila envelopes,
chapbook still-frames stuck on display behind the plastic pages of photo albums.

I have stolen paperclips to keep my life in place,
and the rough arc of my back continues to pierce me through
with possibilities and my right eye twitches, clearing up the vision
of what I once thought was slobbery at best. 

Frank O'Hara was tireless, talking about truth and sardines and oranges,
burning twice as fast and he cannot be wrong because he was there.
I am here and I have sardines and oranges too and there is something, I think,
behind all these paperclips, I'll tell you that much, so listen up...

but first, I have bottles to recycle and battles to squeeze
into weekend boxes that mark the margins of my calendars. 
I'll be busy with fluids for a while, with my manila envelopes
and my photo albums where my memories obey me.

I'll be picking up scraps of music to help me disengage
from the throes of birthing yarns and idles, until tomorrow,
when the hard part is done, when Frank O'Hara and I can
stand to look at each other all over again, and I'll tell him,
"Frank, I've lost my sardines and oranges. Can I borrow yours?"