she lays like a lump.
I can feel the great empty mountain
of her head
but she is alive.
she yawns and
scratches her nose and
pulls up the covers.
soon I will kiss her goodnight
and we will sleep.
and far away is Scotland
and under the ground the
gophers run.
I hear engines in the night
and through the sky a white
hand whirls:
goodnight,dear,goodnight.
YOU ARE READING
Sull'amore
PoetryAlcune poesie di Charles Bukowski. Pubblico una poesia al giorno,lo prometto,prima in italiano e poi in inglese.
