This wordy struggle went on for too long br It is airy words which chased beauty-thoughts br While several filigreed images filtered light br At the back, a flung radio played on the roof br While Bukowski watched the sun shine br On the woman’s behind up in the air, br In the garden, his folded figure on the window. br A little heaving bird on the electric wires br Played high drama in shrill baritone, you see, br A real thing, not an insubstantial phenomenon. br Poetry came and went with wind and rain br Premature and dusty on fragrant creepers br Their flowers became stars on moonless nights.