On the sky press even the spaces must be set in metal
And sit above the text of dreams to print night’s pure black.
Sometimes that space like the space between us
Slips into the day and rises above the waking words
and becomes visible space. It ascends from the pull
of the moon and pushes forward like a panther,
Like a runner in a darkening wood who suddenly sees
The trees don’t block the path, they make the path.