The queasy light through the louvers
glowing shyly in the midnight felt
scratches the thin sheet of the breeze
the breathing expiration of the night
No sentinel, but still
I wait for faintest warnings:
A crunch of fallen leaf
The taste of pennies
A scent not from the pond.
There is a moon obscured
An unwilling witness
Present to the prescient moment
Of detection, reaction.
That I could not see.
It hides behind the rolling smoke of clouds
The misty current of the river in the sky
Dissembling and assembling, flowing
Into an abyss of horizon like memory.
I am no criminal
The moment passed beside me
When I was looking
For the face that would not dare.