For Grace, After a Party In the morning I woke up, and where are the candles? Why are there no more crowds? The empty chairs stare out at the large tree, whose boughs have become heavy with the memory of loves. Some leaves fallen, in their grace, lie like whispers of music still playing in the air. The sun bathes everything once more—in light, glimmering with the laughter of stars and, though we turn, it keeps shining, bleeding grace into the silence of morning.

— Frank O’Hara

• Frank OHara