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  • Late Night Without My Poem by Wallace Stevens
  • Michael Benigni

O.K., let's play it this way.He's on the other side of the moon,in the white spaces between words.And no voices are in the stairwell;the gods go quietly tonight.The trees do not have big,marvelous hands. The stars don't talktrash, kick their dogs and spit.

The clock still ticks. It's timeI come around again to my senses.Coffee grinds and cigarette ashes.The spider on the tightrope—He's my brother and deserves to live.We were both so full of ourselves once.Nevertheless, outside this window,it's the dance of the city,punctilio of neon, the randomscuttle of brown leaves, the soulsundying. A tall well-dressed womandisappearing around a corner,the stilling shadows on a windowpane,a largeness to imagine at this,the eleventh hour and afterthese feet finding earth,and this being alive. [End Page 119]

Michael Benigni
Brookville, Pennsylvania
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