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.