someplace called  space,  in the sunken word of healing,
   like woodwork inched, thumbed down to the last utterance
    of prayer – someplace called      space,  a hermetic enclosure of sometimes
     words    of   fancy like,    sometimes love, most of  the time   hate,
   convoluted   as amaranth.   in  someplace  called   space  there are a number
   of  things  worth mentioning in enigmatic form.   sometimes   no words
      threaten nuances, and   sometimes  (it does)  silence  (a)  bounteous
        dullness   of (what I perceive to  be  a fabulation of  the word)  sense.

love shakes loose, light;  which twirls  in a cornerless  square often
     dreaming sidereal circle, which rotunds sidewind to such darkness that laps
up    this  sequence:   as  sea takes to  shore,    as   people who move (restlessly,
      tirelessly, senselessly)  through    space.

Through the windshield,
the moon hangs low
and enormous in a sky
of frozen obsidian

We sidewind through
the neighborhood
for a better look at
her face

It is harder than it used to be
to see the moon

She materializes in and out of
the rows of houses, emerges
from the silhouette of one
pruned hedge before diving
behind another

We chase her
to the top of the hill,
passed the last lonely
skeleton of a streetlamp

where she glowers down over
the rooftops uninterrupted
like the massive, golden
eye of God.

– mrg