Thursday, March 28, 2024 Text is available under the CC BY-SA 3.0 licence.

Kenneth Patchen

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O my love my dear lady
The world is not very big
There is only room for our wonder
And the light leaning winds of heaven
Are not more sweet or pure
Than your mouth on my throat
O my love there are larks in our morning
And the finding flame of your hands
And the moss on the bank of the river
And the butterflies
And the whirling-mad
Butterflies!
--
"'O My Love the Pretty Towns'"

 
Kenneth Patchen

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Jack was on top of the sow, stabbing downward with his knife. Roger found a lodgment for his point and began to push till he was leaning his whole weight. The spear moved forward inch by inch and the terrified squealing became a high-pitched scream. Then Jack found the throat and the hot blood spouted over his hands. The sow collapsed under them and they were heavy and fulfilled upon her. The butterflies still danced, preoccupied in the center of the clearing.

 
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He had that love of life and love of people; he gathered people around him like other people gather butterflies or postage stamps.

 
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