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my sins with Bukowski

you ramble with his poetry
book after book
crying with Orbison and Lang
the touch that caressed
you deep in the psyche of
your human jungle

you its prey,

dirty dishes, half-smoked
cigarettes, wine-stained sheets,
the tenderness
of a poem,

don't bother me just now,
I'm not finished reading
my epitaph.

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