They bloom and loom in cities no one notices.
High-walled, million-bricked, a roof on cloud turf.

All the letters and numbers are here, all the senses.
Even if you don’t need a tub of mayo or a Monet

knockoff, it’s nice to know you know where to go.
Into the traffic of carts and chattering a woman

merges with a dozen boxes of Kleenex Softique.
A man in overalls reads out loud his shopping list

as if uttering ceremonial phrases. When one
looks closely at the display cabinets that hold

the glittering watches, one’s breath on the glass
is an apparition playing peek-a-boo. I’m flatfooted

in the last row in the furthest aisle. I’m feverish
with colored spots fireworking in my periphery.

I hear someone say, Here we don’t die, we shop.
I hear someone reply, Once we stop denying death,

everything tastes better. Meanwhile, a forklift
beeps as it lowers crates of strawberries, hundreds

huddled between the wooden slats. Little hearts.
Hungry tongues. It depends who you believe.