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Late of a summer night almost white
with feeling tired, highway sounds arrive
credible as land (looming, not surely seen)
which surrounds a lake where you go
as though stalking its water. Your lawn is
dew damp, the air tilts against autumn
a shade more than cool, less than cold.
Square among trees, a neighbour’s tenor
strangled in his shower box, gratuitous
dialogue with insects. Crickets scratch
expertly at what stars pretend to work fine.
Too soon for bed, to be alone’s a cost.
You pay for peace. Futile trying for sleep,
but staying awake has you lie at little mercy
in a room of many faces, heavyeyed.
We’re blamed in our generation. All
I have learned, how to fail differently.
                                                                12. 3. 68
Editor's note
Of a Late Summer Night: first publication
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