Under the cork

tree in the city

square, buy.

that is where

the skirted

merchants cry,

Amber.  Try the

fire test, it is

real.  Feel

our red plantains

how they swell

their skins,

so sweet—

and cherimoya,

delicate white

meat in antique

skin like

alligator

hide.  Siva,

Krishna, Kali

all the gods in

brass.  This

faithful milk

goat, trained

to stand; saris

and glass

bangles, cheap.

The bracelets

chittered in a

heap of saffron,

purple, green and

peacock blue.  They

effervesced

with bubbles

frozen in the

blowing.  She

likes! Buy, come

buy, not knowing

that his hands

were empty in the

pockets of his

coat.  We walked

lightfooted

through red

market dust among

the booths, down

to the river

bed and out of

town, without a

thing we owned

to weigh us down.