Home From A Room Below The Plains

If when walking through the smoking dankling cloths
spread-tabled waiting the switch of light
and hands for incense mouths,
I could remember the drunk manner of the ceiling,
the shower round with bodies
calm as frogs, and avenues with signs and names
unseen held high and white above the caulk;
brooks, roads, grease, manholes, levers,
all manners of traps and wet violets,
but most of all, clear there:
throwing the switch and alone in the orange,
wanting to touch with fingers
and everywhere too quiet as a folded wing,
and then home again: the mouth like steel
rolls, knowing nothing awry,
wanting kisses and bacon as you fall your shoes
and your coat is dead
crossed with sticks and barking,
and somewhere the mouth opens
and the brain leaps to clear,
ships sink below the throat,
fired there;
plants outside,
plants outside,
wilt against
your breath.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1960
This poem appeared in the following books: