To the girl in March wind with pure wonderment of thigh, calve and knee.

The devil has often been here

over the top of my wine bottle

grinning at me;

surely I am senseless to judge anything that’s near?

You’ve no doubt got a voice like a pelican

A thrust and shove of

subway stigmata?

Come, I’ll tear up all my poems

for just a little piece

of you.

Charles Bukowski