Along the lamp-lit pavement I progress,
each house alongside more immense with darkness,
now berthed, as if the runaway day were
its movement, anchor now dropped, cabin glow.
The hard teak front doors dipped like hulls in murk,
watertight home profundities therein,
the furniture of heart and brain revealed
of dwellers, skull bone walls prohibiting.
Out here, one walks the gang-plank to a waiting
car, the houses slip by, benighted front
gardens show up their gnomes: one’s tender smile
of porcelain stops me in my tracks to peer
and eerily to lead into the night’s
duration: for this sleepless thing the day
is here, and all the tiredness within
interiors, the happy myth to its people.
