Kite String

I dip on my knees
on wine rugs
far away from everything
like a photograph
that was taken long ago
and put in a drawer.

I keep thinking of bodies
straight and lined and
lumped as
hammerhead sharks
caught by small boys
with kite string
from some
sea wharf.

but always sunlight
the good sunlight
softening the eye
turning the head down from
fire to the tips of
and going well down the
movement and manners,
the talk of old women
as I wash out the guts
of a frozen chicken
and listen to

Charles Bukowski
This poem appeared in the following books: