On Half Moon Street
we eat Tunisian orange cake,
under a painting of a melon
that spills seeds like love.

Over Notre Dame
the moon is a plate,
tossed by a Greek waiter
from rue Hachette.

Clear of Galway's rooftops
the full moon
- bald as a skull -
crowns the night.

When she is van Gogh yellow
and mooning above,
we close the shutters
to safely sleep.