here is the poem - who is H.D. (bolded)?

vegas

BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI

there was a frozen tree that I wanted to paint

but the shells came down

and in Vegas looking across at a green sunshade

at 3:30 in the morning,

I died without nails, without a copy of the Atlantic Monthly,

the windows screamed like doves moaning the bombing of Milan

and I went out to live with the rats

but the lights were too bright

and I thought maybe I'd better go back and sit in a

poetry class:

a marvelous description of a gazelle

is hell;

the cross sits like a fly on my window,

my mother’s breath stirs small leaves

in my mind;

and I hitch-hiked back to L.A. through hangover clouds

and I pulled a letter from my pocket and read it

and the truckdriver said, what’s that?

and I said, there's some gal up North who used to

sleep with Pound, she's trying to tell me that H.D.

was our greatest scribe; well, Hilda gave us a few pink

Grecian gods in with the chinaware, but after reading her

I still have 140 icicles hanging from my bones.

I'm not going all the way to L.A., the truckdriver said.

it's all right, I said, the calla lilies nod to our minds

and someday we’ll all go home

together.

in fact, he said, this is as far

as we go.

so I let him have it; old withered whore of time

your breasts taste the sour cream of dreaming . . .

he let me out

in the middle of the desert;

to die is to die is to die,

old phonographs in cellars,

joe di maggio,

magazines in with the onions . . .

an old Ford picked me up

45 minutes later

and, this time,

I kept my mouth

shut.

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