Consummation of Grief by Bukowski

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.