domingo, 8 de febrero de 2009

Spring Swam

Charles Bukowski
swans die in the Spring too
and there it floated
dead on a Sunday
circling in current
and I walked to the rotunda
and overhead
gods in chariots
dogs, women
and death
ran down my throat
like a mouse,
and I heard the people coming
with their picnic bags
and laughter,
and I felt guilty
for the swan
as if death
were a thing of shame
and like a fool
I walked away
and left them
my beautiful swan.

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