The moon comes knocking on our door; a slavish stalker who hangs around all night. The slowest of walkers, he matched at an equal distance each of our homeward steps.
We close our door on him, push him out only to find he’s already skirted the house, taken the side alley, slipped the padlocked gate, jumped the flowerpots and several four foot pines and is staring fixedly through our unlit bedroom windows.
He’ll watch all night, like this, through his scarf of cloud, the broken drape; while we count faceless sheep he waits.
Disagree with half of it, enjoy reading all of it
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