Читать книгу Essential Bukowski: Poetry - Чарльз Буковски, Abel Debritto - Страница 22

swans die in the spring too

and there it floated

dead on a Sunday

sideways

circling in current

and I walked to the rotunda

and overhead

gods in chariots

dogs, women

circled,

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.