from a fast window, even brown grass

looks exciting. rolling into town, the smell

of burnt apples. grandpas, babies, tattooed

teens squint in harsh sunlight as if waiting

to feel something. at the market, dusty

avocados, a tub of microgreens. I buy

cobalt blue glasses I don’t need. how lovingly

the seller wraps each one. I don’t ask

for much these days—a slice of pie,

some time in the shade, fruit ripening

on a low branch. beyond the field, white

crosses lean in the windless cemetery.

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