I pick up the skirt, <br />I pick up the sparkling beads <br />in black, <br />this thing that moved once <br />around flesh, <br />and I call God a liar, <br />I say anything that moved <br />like that <br />or knew <br />my name <br />could never die <br />in the common verity of dying, <br />and I pick <br />up her lovely <br />dress, <br />all her loveliness gone, <br />and I speak to all the gods, <br />Jewish gods, Christ-gods, <br />chips of blinking things, <br />idols, pills, bread, <br />fathoms, risks, <br />knowledgeable surrender, <br />rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad <br />without a chance, <br />hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance, <br />I lean upon this, <br />I lean on all of this <br />and I know <br />her dress upon my arm <br />but <br />they will not <br />give her back to me.<br /><br />Charles Bukowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-jane-with-all-the-love-i-had-which-was-not-e/
