I Am Dead But I Know the Dead are not Like This
the dead can sleep
they don’t get up and rage
they don’t have a wife.
her white face
like a flower in a closed
window lifts up and
looks at me.
the curtain smokes a cigarette
and a moth dies in a
freeway crash
as I examine the shadows of my
hands.
an owl, the size of a baby clock
rings for me, come on come on
it says as Jerusalem is hustled
down crotch-stained halls.
the 5 a.m. grass is nasal now
in hums of battleships and valleys
in the raped light that brings on
the fascist birds.
I put out the lamp and get in bed
beside her, she thinks I’m there
mumbles a rosy gratitude
as I stretch my legs
to coffin length
get in and swim away
from frogs and fortunes.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
