market

so we need cherries.
lots and lots of bursting cherries in big broken
wooden boxes with bone marrow pits -
and we need crisp cut bright apples
and dark dark grapes that bleed thin
wine on our fingertips - and  hot food
from far far far away that burns our purple fingers - and jars 
of layered jam, blocked and locked in bubble glass -
and we need children that
grab for sun-colored peaches and streak
juice down their chins and smudge
ice cream on their shirts and stick
to the walls and soccer balls 
and dogs - and we need
trees over the apples and glassy
jam and sticky children, planted
at odd intervals to speckle the
sidewalks with sun and bits of
spilled stars at the right season -

and we need snow in the summers,
powdered sugar piles on the pastries -
and tangly irregular posters near twisty
tunnel bookstores, the kind with 
cats, and places that sell cookies 
and coats and cellos and songs in
other languages, humming out in the streets -
so we need music, the soft guitar and
violin type, with lyrics that twist 
like poetry but fast enough
that children can dance and run in circles -
and we need new red red cherries when the
old ones turn burst brown and cracked in the sun.

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