A poem.

Frank O’Hara
Anxiety



I'm having a real day of it.

There was
something I had to do. But what?
There are no alternatives, just
the one something.

I have a drink,
it doesn't help – far from it!
I
feel worse. I can’t remember how
I felt, so perhaps I feel better.
No. Just a little darker.

If I could
get really dark, richly dark, like
being drunk, that’s the best that’s
open as a field. Not the best,

but the best except for the impossible
pure light, to be as if above a vast
prairie, rushing and pausing over
the tiny golden heads in deep grass.