The moon ripens on its stem.
What profit harvesting it
will bring him! The boy reaches
in his dreams even the top
most branches of the night. How
many moons does he carry
on his back leaving the farm,
when he’s taxed off the land at
last onto the street? The light
there, though counterfeit, roots him.
Dawn among wheeling shadows.
The taste of pennies makes him
old too soon. He drops into
a dream of pale apples.