MACINTOSH MOON 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.