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