Moon on the Run

The moon ties up her shoes, luminous and grave.
The maps of night unfurl roads without a name.
Then she departs, leaving a broad breath of silver.
She sprints through dead lamps and shadows’ tracks.
Each star becomes an arrow driving onward.
Time trips up, and the night holds its breath.
The maps attempt to hold her with threads of rain.
The moon, hasty, ties seconds around her calves.
The city watches on, blurring its outlines.
At last the path curves into a gust of wind.
No path can tame her save for silver liberty.
And the darkness, silent-mouthed, applauds her flight.