English poetry

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Consummation Of Grief

I even hear the mountains
The way they laugh
Up and down their blue sides
And down in the water
The fish cry
And the water
Is their tears.
I listen to the water
On nights I drink away
And the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
It becomes knobs upon my dresser
It becomes paper on the floor
It becomes a shoehorn
A laundry ticket
It becomes
Cigarette smoke
Climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
It matters little
Very little love is not so bad
Or very little life
What counts
Is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

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Poem Consummation Of Grief - Charles Bukowski