A Lit Window.

Back –to-back terraced houses separated by the length of gardens.
Why don’t I draw the curtains on the dim orange glow of light
From a solitary window?
It rises into the blue-black night, a gable wall, a tall chimney, not
Spacing its dominant force against the orderly rows, an oddity
In a row of conformity.
I saw that film once, the Amityville horror with twin eyes gleaming.
This lower light on the right-hand side draws more fear than any
Made-up horror.
It has no right to be there, you see? A tiny square of light where there
Should be more. Like a blinded big cat – a lion or a tiger with one eye
Put out but still stalking.
I see it now through darkened glass – I cannot let it dominate my
Thoughts, so I can’t /won’t draw the curtains against the night, in case
That light goes out.

I imagine that to be the worst image of all – for what then would I see
In the blackness beyond my dirty window? A nothing? A glimpse of a
World beyond my imagination?

And that I have in myriad fragments-the end of what I cannot see.

………….