Walking off my lament,
I fumble with the path towards home,
wander and graze the tennis court
like the close shave of a bullet.
Sprinklers high as indomitable fences
spray the concrete down.
Night bankrupts the sky of its yellows,
keeps only floodlights as a loan
around which a parish of gnats swarms and statics
like a clipped nerve.
Monday, so bacchanalia are free to propagate,
even so close to the neighboring church
whose belltower is hushed by hiatus,
even endorsed by lustless insects.
The church shuts its sage doors and turns its back
to this congregation. It is better not to know
than to squint on old eyes through the darkness
where teenagers plot their reckless course and where I,
fumbling with my path towards home,
allow my prying gaze its immodest detour.
