Alleys

Mar 26, 2016

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There are alleys and rows
of little homes
I scarcely know;
they are hiding in dreams
and come back to light;
not a dazzling light,
but lanterns swinging
with the insomniac moon,
and half asleep I walk
wondering at my shadow,
wondering where it's leading me.
I, like the finite, indrawn world
of alleys, anonymous, winding
indiscreet, a human universe
of ignorance and folly.
The night must be gloriously dark,
secretive in shielding the sorrow and the joy,
of her denizens, disturbed and mysterious,
happy, sorrowful,
petty, magnanimous,
the night is everything to all.
And I feel an exquisite peace
in visiting the alleys I have not seen before.
I must have been a sleepwalker
sometime in some life in the past.