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The night-owl

We called it the night-owl: At midnight, the last trolley leaving The city for hillsides in darkness; Tomorrow's paper was hawked on the corners When we boarded, giving up transfers Good just until twelve. Cinderella's coach Would have turned pumpkin; ours only Turned north, sparking blue from crossed wires, Swiveled by spires of St. Francis de Sales, Rocked along rails in empty streets Where the bricks shone silver as blisters. All the rowhouses whispered night, all The householders decently slept while we sat On wicker seats and held hands, hearing The nicker of bats through the open screens, Watching the brassy oaks hanging haloes On boulevard lamps. With the night-owl We rode far to a circle swept clean Of sweet leaves by street winds; Then it glow-wormed into the smallest Of hours, leaving us at dream's end, Never to be trolleyed back, but with transfers Good for all our tomorrows.

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