she saunters to the room in white sundress and boots — some girl bukowski would probably write about. her heart, stitched to her sleeves, leaving her chest smothered with lilacs and cigarette smoke.
how do you know you got embers that can start a forest fire when all that matters is walking straight to the arms of a storm dressed as another girl — a girl dressed as another storm leaving behind casualty after casualty after casualty in leaky apartments and hotel rooms.
well, poets don't tell you how storms kiss — how they're made of moonlight, dripping like ether on a sea glass and before you know it, your skin is the sea, reaching, yielding with total abandon to every curling of the tongue, to chapped lips and to sighs.
this must be what 'it' looks like.
then again, bukowski never really wrote that much about love, and it's no secret;
her feet are no altars to offer your poems and darling,