ROBERT MOTHERWELL

The blown sax
in roseate tones
over the stop signs
at the Cedar Bar
and a poet
under the hichhiked stars
looks for Motherwell
in his dungarees
hanging on every word
about expressionist art
as the anarchic lights
last all night
O'Hara drops in
for a drink
it is snowing
and only a lunch poem
like a sailor's leave
survives.