I wrote you a postcard
From New York City
And I quoted Frank O’Hara
It was exactly what a girl in love would like to receive.
But I kept it in my poetry book
And I thought I’d send it when I got home
And to be fair I haven’t sent my mum’s either.
But I feel hers will be sent
And yours will not.
(The use of someone else’s art
To express your own feelings
Is so delicate a thing
That I cannot use his crystalline words
To express my bruised and dying love.)