Poem by Henry Charles Bukowski

luck

once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking
smoking
typing
it was a most
splendid
miraculous
time
still
is
only now
instead of
moving toward
time
it
moves toward
us
makes each word
drill
into the
paper
clear
fast
hard
feeding a
closing
space.

1. raw with love
2. the trash men
3. alone with everybody
4. what can we do?
5. these things

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