walking home

it's not a denial

or a denseness

to which place

in mind

is place of real

I walk

and it is not

some godlike

sense of security

for I'm aware

of should'st be a shiver

where there is none–

I know but to know

is not to be–

it is not the lit

buildings, guardians

of nigh,

or the eyes of the streetlamps,

witness to

all wayward

journeys–

or the light in the window,

a curious

will o' the wisp?...

No.–

It is the moon

illumination awash

laked shores

the compass'd sky–

the Moon,

she lights everything up

like day.