Once a week to town for groceries,
the mini-mall strange enough
that I am stopped on the pavement by the sky,
pearlescent cirrus, escadrilles of cumuli,
blue plastic bags luffing in my cart
in the midst of the ruins,
fossil-fueled chariots idle in their slots
before tar-roofed oases of provision,
all of it, including me, out of harmony
with the lines of the horizon
and the orbits of the planets.
I must change my ways.
