Walking After Dark

So. The moon lands (hazy silver
On drab funeral-suited trees),
Flutters with a night-moth's shudder
Toward the furnace of the stars…

Draw back, and the shadows follow
Press on, yes, they'll let you pass,
But though evening now seems yielding
When wind shows, things'll turn fierce.

Seconds spread out into minutes
Wild enough to break most clocks
In this country that you've entered
Stow your words – stick just to looks,

And listen – There: raindrops falling…
Then the click of a screen-door
"Holy Cain, man, would you tell me
What you're out past midnight for?"

"Well, the truth is…I'm not sure ma'am,
Where I'm at, but I don't grouse…
Wouldn't be waking in the first place,---
But, see, Sorrow owns my house.

"All that's there is junk – old  checkbooks,
Calendars long out of use,
Pots too leaky for my coffee,
Thoughts I've thought, and can't let loose.

"Sure, I'm crazy – still it's my choice
To be tramping through this squall.
Night's a nutcase – but She has space
When Her kinsfolk come to call."