Call it Fayetteville

...........................While onward westward,
the objects of this world found in a neighborhood
slender from their beginning casts and molding shadows,
while insouciant night backs into the silhouettes
that have spread off the clear air, now bluely darkening.

.....................The street parsed with rectangular
bedroom window lights, projected upon fences brushed
with the remaining minutes and reflect whitewash of day’s
majolica, a mummed glisten of the earlier motions
tempered down, now below some updrafts of lofty stars.

................................The rows of houses, stilled,
have been guarded by impenetrable thickets of customs,
something of a sighing that quietly guides the tone, like
an etching of a lone village chiseled out from a dark forest
and permeated with ambulated secrets in a depicted fog.

.................................And now the scene framed upon drywall,
safely backed into nostalgia for the discrete indiscretions,
declaring even some other with a brilliant seriousness,
above the careful sleepers, within hallways of somnambulists,
faint scraps of light captured to outline histrionic paths.