by Bill Yarrow
A version of this poem appeared in the Eleanor issue of Literary Orphans.
Thanks, Mike Joyce!
Short, concise, inviting. The dance of many deaths. I always enjoy reading your work.*
Nothing wasted. Great form.
Crisp but full! *
Good Buk tribute.
Fatherville. Wonder if I missed something in reading. Did Buk understand endings? My understanding was that he understood people. The book fell off the shelf while I was semi-reclined reading Virginia Woolf. Beez came home from work, with his bicycle, parked it in the hallway, and entered upon the reading area and found me with Bukowski open against my knees. You're reading Bukowski? he asked. It was my "all woman" year. It fell off the shelf, I said. *
Delighted by all of your comments and amazed by all of your faves. Thank you, Emily, Sam, Brenda, Jake, Matt, Daniel, and Ann!
Thanks so much, Kari!
He was also, if you believe his drunken ramblings, the only poet who knew what love is.*
Just about perfect, Bill. You understand them, too.
Thank you, Amanda and Foster!
Amanda: EVERY poet, don't you think, thinks he or she is the only person who REALLY knows what REAL love REALLY is.
Fos: As they say in the gymnastics segments of the Olympics, "To win, he/she needs to stick the landing." Hey, all you writers in Fictionaut land: stick the landing!