What about love?

Bukowski, through Carver, asked me.
What do I know, if anything.
Bukowski thinks I don’t, and if I agree,
his words through Raymond’s writing, is he right?
And if this next line begins with an answer,
a tight, poetic retort, am I?

Or is knowing love saying nothing?
How I could write nothing,
not another word,
and still know mountains about love.

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