THE STAND-OFF.

When I first had lunch with Frank O’Hara he was

running five years late. Over Strega and French

cigarettes I knew I’d never enjoy so comfortable

a lunch again. 1:13 p.m. on a Tuesday and I’ve been

awake an hour so it’s breakfast not lunch laid up

in bed as my lungs flood with smoke. It’s just you

and me and I’m planted here in Richmond. I've never

been to Pittsburgh and that's where you are.

Today it’s a stand-off and I’m scared of these bullets

that travel across state-borders, scared to fling wide

my arms and catch them with my vest, scared that

the force from your pistol knocks me back to concrete

and scared it might break my spine and scared that

you won’t try to kill me today.

Monday was yesterday and you sent me a photo

of the snow-coated view from your window and

you ask me why sometimes I’m unhappy and I

blame it on my itch to write lines like these, on

the itch that shoots up my shoulder blades with

these wings coming in.

3:08 p.m. on a Tuesday and I’m just out of the

shower and I’m smoking Turkish Silvers again this

week so things like the sky behind the clouds and

the sun when I’m seeing it straight-on look different

and dreamy. In this moment you’ve released the

trigger and I’m standing with a bullet in my chest,

telling you how I’m scared to die.