Harvest

The full moon: lantern of light
aligned with Lincoln Ave. streetlights.
After an Ocean Beach sunset,
I cross a Great Highway towards the city.




The Moon Rising,
by FG Lorca

When the moon rises,
the bells hang silent,
and the impenetrable footpaths
appear.

When the moon rises,
the sea covers the land,
and the heart feels
like an island in infinity.

Nobody eats oranges
under the full moon.
One must eat fruit
that is green and cold.

When the moon rises,
moon of a hundred equal faces,
the silver coinage
sobs in the pocket.

Trans. Lysander Kemp  ¶ 8:54 PM