December, and still no mon
rising from the river.
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
while the Polish music wheezed.
I'm drunk, she says,
and knows she's not. In her chair
undoing brassiere and garters
and waits for the need
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
staining her lap.
Philip Levine's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Late Moon by Philip Levine )
William Carlos Williams
(17 September 1883 – 4 March 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 January 1887 – 20 January 1962)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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