Cars are honking — the drunk crossing the street is wondering how much money I have — a boy with a blinding jacket yells Francita — and she’s beautiful walking toward him, her black hair like a rope down her back — I’m dying: to remember how it was to feel a kite pulling — without doubting the wind — how good it was to stroll beside marigolds in the park — to walk further, for a love of boulders, and not hear a hard voice — Your pussy’s mine! and not look through trees for an exit, not think: wrong shoes but run — This afternoon I open my paper bag on a bench — and there it is — the shape of a plum — I must take my time with it. Its darkest purple shines and sustains.