Poetry turnst(y)le: Bukowski once again

Destroying Beauty 

a rose
red sunlight;
I take it apart
in the garage
like a puzzle:
the petals are as greasy
as old bacon
and fall
like the maidens of the world
backs to the floor
and I look up
at the old calendar
hung from a nail
and touch
my wrinkled face
and smile
the secret
is beyond me.

~ Bukowski, from The Roominghouse Madrigals: early selected poems 1946 – 1966 (p. 256).

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