The Sound of the Hairdryer in the Bathroom

With that sound
I remember she is in there
like the sound of an airplane somewhere
over the trees.

I’m confused by the squawk of some
bird that repeats like the pieces of a
puzzle, nearing completion.

Frank O’Hara’s death haunts me. He
sleeps like I slept, and as others
are still sleeping. In the barn, on the beachfront with no shirt.

Death is in the sunflower, the bored
cat, the sound of electricity
pulsing through the wall. She comes

out, naked from the waist up, and
again, oh yes, she is in there now and she’s
come out, and it all snaps together, I have occurred like a yawn or like the years.

Music replies in the morning, the telephone
is still busted as is the washing machine
and door buzzer. So, perhaps, I won’t be

reached. Still, I think, something will happen while I
wait here, the ringing phone will not be behind a
locked door, the hairdryer will blast away the quietnesses of myself.