O’Hara frankly tells the sun to go away. The sun says his poems may not be the best but seem ok.
He must frankly look up more often and find the sun in the fire island .
Poet says please hang on for a while. But the sun says ,embracing the western sky, I can’t. They are calling me.
They are calling you too. Who are they? You will know.
In the meanwhile the earth says you should look down, more often. That is where your poems are dust.