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Marianne Moore
B. 11.15.1887 Kirkwood, Missouri / D. 2.5.1972 New York City

As I lay waking
In my dream I’d just saved a young man from dying of electrical shock by sticking a plug of cold butter in his ear. In doing so I'd realized that I knew to do this because I was Edith Wharton. The butter plug was a tip she’d picked up from reading a history of Australia, as she recalled. To commemorate the saving of the young man, a very muscular and pink one, she would go on to set a famous section of a famous story on a boat bound from Australia to someplace she’d really been.
to summer in New York, where the parade floats shake beneath the pelvic revelries of non-combatants
The young man had been holding a wire that shocked him, made him fall down in convulsions. We were separated by some distance, across the struts and empty shaft-mouths of an indoor building site. By the time I reached him, presumably while I was becoming Edith Wharton, he’d been stripped. A young woman knelt beside his shivering unconscious pink body. I told her she’d got to cover him with a blanket, and then get some cold butter for the ear plug.
another flawless blue sky wasted itself on my mini-venetians.
Distantly, a small loud dog barked moth-holes in the morning’s peace.

Consolation Site: Mongoose Civique

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