The moon is faint, another cloud
that thins away with sunset.

The windows come to light
bright as love’s betrayal.
People in their acts are caught
in golden frames like saints.

Some see the dark as curtain enough
and go on in their gold boxes.
Others come to know of their lit lives
and pull the shades to have a private self.

I remain out here, the watcher, alone.
A grace, so long gone I never knew
its old face, comes on the wind
and dies in my nose like a smell.