[THE LIGHT COMES ON BY ITSELF]
by Frank O’Hara

The light comes on by itself
and just as independently off
it goes into the strange sounds of breathing
I am waiting for you to love me

the grass grows and
ants are clambering laboriously over the windowsill
near the paling clouds
I am waiting for you to love me

now a death enters and dumps
suits and dresses out into the
street where the holes are filled and oil stains spread
I am waiting for you to love me

I have a penchant for sad red bricks
and the sun burning itself out up there
for toll booths and water towers and
I am waiting for you to love me

now these streets are becoming winding
the house is falling down not being torn
while I am looking for a right-angle street avenue boulevard anything
I am waiting for you to love me