IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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BIOGRAPHY OF SOUTHERN RAIN

Kenneth Patchen

Rain's all right. The boys who physic through town on freights won't kick if it comes; they often laugh then, talking about the girl who lived down the block, and how her hair was corn-yellow gold that God could use for money. But rain, like memory, can come in filthy clothes too. The whole upstairs of space caved in that night; as though a drunken giant had stumbled over the sky-- and all the tears in the world came through. It was that. Like everyone hurt crying at once. Trees bent to it, their arms a gallows for all who had ever died in pain, or were hungry, since the first thief turned to Christ, cursing. . . Then, out of the rain, a girl's voice--her hand on my arm. "Buddy, help me get this train." Her voice was soft. . . a cigarette after coffee. I could hear the clickdamnitclick of the wheels; saw the headlight writng something on the rain. Then I saw her face--its bleeding sores--I didn't ask her if she had ever been in love or had ever heard of Magdalen and Mary or why she wanted to leave that town. Do you see what I mean about the rain?

 
 
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