Our eyes shy away
from the watchers amid the nets.
In an empty apartment,
the gossamer gloom of old lace,
back-lit by a spectral light.
Faces long gone
from empty rooms,
scan hollow-eyed
each passer-by.
Every dim dawn and dusk,
a forgotten face
peers through them.
The stars are silent.
The net curtains
watch and will not tell,
but now in the gleaming,
all eyes lower,
as dusk settles upon
netted fenestella.
How do you know this?
You remember
passing by,
and walking in – don’t you?
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