This is taken from Bukowski’s first volume of poetry entitled _The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills_: ## _spring swan_ swans die in the Spring too and there it floated dead on a Sunday sideways circling in current and I walked to the rotunda and overhead gods in chariots dogs, women circled, and death ran down my throat like a mouse, and I heard people coming with their picnic bags and laughter, and I felt guilty for the swan as if death were a thing of shame and like a fool I walked away and left them my beautiful swan. CHARLES BUKOWSKI # Explanation