I sat (as I do when I don't need to stand)
By the river Vorma, a twenty minute forest walk
From my home farm.
Bukowski sat with me, speaking of how even
The best books in the world are
Merely sawdust.
I watched the sun via the water go from bright,
Innocent yellow to dark, sensual shades of
All sorts of blood,
Blushing with its whole self, then withdrawing
Beyond the rippled mirror image of its
Completely unjustified shame.
I lost my reading light, folded Charlie up and
Sat with my arms across my knees, watching
Fish jump on unsuspecting dinner insects,
Tossed the book in the water, and sighed.
The whole scene was just too perfect
Not to.