On Love

by Charles Bukowski

I walk on and wonder where the living goes when it stops.

but as God said, crossing his legs, I see where I have made plenty of poets but not so very much poetry.

in this room the hours of love still make shadows.

but what can I make of love when we are all born at a different time and place and only meet through a trick of centuries and a chance three steps to the left?

love is what vanished with the age of battleships

love is what vanished with the age of...

can see sidewalks built for her feet to walk upon,

as if some human you loved very much and lived with day after day had died and you are the only one to have known the music the magic the unbelievable gallantry.