Driving down a long suburban road,
travelling alone in the blue dusk,
you know you cannot go back.
Every road is leading somewhere,
even this one with its rows of identical boxes,
doors shut to the evening.
Everything that happens is your road:
the houses and the people,
the lights and the dark.
You have no sense of what's inside,
but there is light in the window,
a yellow mist,
like the edge of a flame,
that does not change,
that cannot go out.
You will remember this moment
when you stopped your car
and stood alone in the road.
You will remember this night,
this street, as beautiful,
the houses like lanterns.
Containers of light, it is right
that the doors are closed.
In the morning they will open once again.