Читать книгу Essential Bukowski: Poetry - Чарльз Буковски, Abel Debritto - Страница 12

a rose

red sunlight;

I take it apart

in the garage

like a puzzle:

the petals are as greasy

as old bacon

and fall

like the maidens of the world

backs to floor

and I look up

at the old calendar

hung from a nail

and touch

my wrinkled face

and smile

because

the secret

is beyond me.