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April 20th, 2014 - we have 234 poets, 8,025 poems and 103,948 comments.
Philip Levine - Late Moon

2 a.m. 
December, and still no mon 
rising from the river. 
  
My mother 
home from the beer garden 
stands before the open closet 
  
her hands still burning. 
She smooths the fur collar, 
the scarf, opens the gloves 
  
crumpled like letters. 
Nothing is lost 
she says to the darkness, nothing. 
  
The moon finally above the town, 
The breathless stacks, 
the coal clumps, 
  
the quiet cars 
whitened at last. 
Her small round hand whitens, 
  
the hand a stranger held 
and released 
while the Polish music wheezed. 
  
I'm drunk, she says, 
and knows she's not. In her chair 
undoing brassiere and garters 
  
she sighs 
and waits for the need 
to move. 
  
The moon descends 
in a spasm of silver 
tearing the screen door, 
  
the eyes of fire 
drown in the still river, 
and she's herself. 
  
The little jewels 
on cheek and chin 
darken and go out, 
  
and in darkness 
nothing falls 
staining her lap.

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Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 2389 times | Comments and analysis of Late Moon by Philip Levine Comments (0)

Late Moon - Comments and Information

Poet: Philip Levine
Poem: Late Moon
Poem of the Day: Jan 13 2014
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