Galway Kinnell quotes

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this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
A boy's hunched body loved out of a stalk
The first song of his happiness, and the song woke
There is something joyous in the elegies
Of birds. They seem
The appeal to heaven breaks off.
The petals begin to fall, in self-forgiveness.
the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing
The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don't flower,
I take a wolf's rib and whittle
it sharp at both ends
the rest of my days I spend
wandering: wondering
you in San Quentin,
who wrote, "Being German my hero is Hitler,"
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