One Saturday evening in 1968, the poets battled on Long Island. Drinks spilled into the grass. Punches were flung; some landed. Chilean and French poets stood on a porch and laughed while the Americans brawled. A glass table shattered. Bloody-nosed poets staggered into the coming darkness.
Allen Ginsberg fell to his knees and prayed.
The World Poetry Conference at Stony Brook University was almost over.
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