I spoke to the Japanese woman, she suggested the arugula was good in salad, try the Japanese parsley— I knew that, I picked two bunches of Japanese mustard and some garlic chives because you like greens— She pointed to the black storm cloud moving in from the west, rolling across the expired sunset above silhouettes of black treetops— “Maybe we’ll be gone before it rains”—“Is it supposed to rain Saturday, too?” —”No, we’ll get ready tomorrow for Saturday.” —”Where will you be Saturday, Pasadena?” —”Santa Monica.” I cradled three pink proteas with spikes and black fuzz inside my elbow (you do not care for proteas, but I bring them to you), I selected four pounds of $3/pound pink-fleshed cara cara oranges wondering why you don’t care for oranges—you don’t have anything against them, but you don’t go for them—like the books I give you which you don’t read, you may start them but not finish them—as much as I can feel my own fingertips, more than I feel my own heart beat as I perused the cauliflower, a guy in the baseball cap following my every move, tallying the total even as I turned over purple kale and green kale in my hands—recalling our trips through the four corners area (once on a warm night the tent was crushed at the edge of the Uncompahgre by gale force winds 2,000 feet above Grand Junction, CO— once at Willow Flat Campground in Canyonlands, Utah the tent was destroyed in my hands before I could even put it up, rain sweeping over and battering me in sheets as lightning blasted the thousand foot high mesa around us, day’s end after you photographed the rainbows driven toward us across the storm front)— I stuffed the celery, kale and cauliflower in my bag with small yellow Yukon Gold potatoes, recalling breakfasts you dished out when we have a full house, fried potatoes flecked with onions and garlic— (we’ll have a full house next week, Marina’s bringing her dogs Friday—maybe for weeks after that—Rick called to say he’s bringing the wife and kids out of Slovenia by way of Vegas and Culver City)— night sweeps over everything and everyone, bringing the rain, music playing somewhere, the crowd sparse at the market under the big spreading oak in the night streets— but really, having collected change and folded the bills in my wallet, I strive after dreams that I no longer remember, though even in the dreams of you, I kept doing what I was doing, though I felt a bit abashed.

zeppelin stunt