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   for Frank O’Hara

One day I am thinking of
School: The Art Students League,
I write a line about the halls. I have
never seen the halls of the League. So
I write about the windows, the mortar,
the staircases. I cover the stairs with
cigarettes. Days go by. More cigarettes.
I am a real smoker. Suddenly it is
1970 and I have been there seven years.
I am painting. I am winning scholarships.
My teacher Edward Laning gets
exhibitions. I get more paint. I make a
painting so big it comes in four wooden
parts. One day it ends up in an exhibition.
But the gallery put the pieces together
wrong. I call it Puzzled. Though the
way it is put together, it could be
an orange, too.