I’ve been reading Bukowski before bed.
sifting through the madness
for the Word, the line, the way
New poems from a dead man.
It won’t do for the painting on my easel
but I’m searching for something.
The one poem I loved so long ago
when Francis bought this book.
I am dead to her now
and so she it to me too I guess.
It is my biggest regret
that great unknown thing
that I did.
So the Bukowski is fitting.
It feels right.
I can’t find the poem.