Hands are held in silent prayer as the raven flew into the dark side of the moon. The little eye also rises, the harvest-ruddy moon glowing in the dark. Coochy, coochy, luna luny growing loom and stilted airs and jilted heirs sulking in the gloom. Beneath the irony of Armstrong's footprint above Pike's Peak, imagination is a gazelle leaping through ghazals to the moon. Poetry in motion innocent as saucers of the moon.
Murky stars blink through the gloom, then fall to earth to grant a boon.
Silver strings echo the full moon's ripe to which dark lunatics under the silvering orb turn windershins in orbit akimbo, like the waving arms of lawn acrobats, summoning. The moon is a wide pie-plate my grandmother kept way back in the cupboard along with her honeymoon pictures. But then I woke up and everything was different. Always is, always is, always is never whay is seen. Something of unknown.