Thinking of Frank O'Hara

A poem is not a photograph the reader develops!
It's the substance that is pictured, and the reader makes it real.
By mere communication, a pillbox of sticks turns into a tree.
We ask what the garlands signify
When there are branches to climb and leaves to turn
And shade we can only enjoy.

What the poet's eye reads, the reader paints
And it's there—no less than the trash
The wind dumps and then picks up like a miracle.
Though people think it is less than breath,
It holds its shape better than shrubbery
—It gleams, it glows!
The carcass of our spirit
Hangs from its bones.