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Lifelong night person Michael Heffernan often writes poems before he can glimpse the rosy-fingered dawn. The title of his twelfth book redounds from poetry itself as a muse who recognizes the poet in the form of a father figure. None of this has much to do with the poems themselves, which belong to the imagination via the unconscious. The act of making the poem happens in its own place, in a time at once past and future, where the present has no space.