By Joseph Milosch
Only during the harvest moon
does light come to this city.
High tension wires sing
a cable stretching song
as ghosts moan because the seeds
between their bones are swelling.
When the sky breaks into dawn,
the moon’s light flows out of itself
like breath blowing out of a mouth,
which is shaped into a lopsided O;
then, the nights
of the Autumn Equinox
become fragile and fade slowly
like the voices of the ‘Temps’
holding a note in harmony.
Only in this city does this happen.
During the night of September 21,
magic becomes real, and the moon
pierces a mulberry grove with its beam.
It isn’t the witching hour when particle
by particle the moon’s light assembles itself
on top of a patch of leaves,
sprinkled with berries.
Now time strips before stopping,
and for one moment stands
in broken light unencumbered by shadow,
exposed, and unafraid of morning.
Only during the harvest moon does light come to this city.