Six O’Clock
Movement disturbs Mimosa. The building
shivers; the plant plays dead.
Light bedazzles Mimosa. The television
glows; the plant comes to. Soon, sensing
night has come, it folds its leaves again.
Night has not; the segment was filmed in shadow.
The television presents a forest fire;
credulous Mimosa opens like
a human unafraid to sleep with someone
in the room. The television rolls
through its channels. Fire is everywhere.
“And now, live—” “Y ahora—” Like
a child at the mercy of a parent, the plant
has grown accustomed. Burnt fern thicket:
spasm. Blaze: unfurling. Its
name’s Morí Viví—died, lived.
* * * * *
Midtown
I touched a grapefruit & wet
my hand humidity
the vendor said & I put
three into the bag
he held open
I don’t recall his face
he offered me his arm
white canvas fragrant
of fruit of summer
I bowed
my head & careful not
to put weight on him
dried my hands
this was
somewhere in Midtown
years ago seven eight