it’s dusk as I
enter the grocery
a jug of distilled
water in my cart
in the cereal aisle
Octavio Paz is
constructing a
small boat
with cereal
boxes and asks
Can we ever
escape this brutal
dream? the air
smells of tequila
and musty pages
of an old book
I say I’m just here
for oat milk and
corn flakes—as my
cart drifts briefly
away from me and
he rushes toward me
kisses my forehead
and leaves the store
tears streaming down
his weary face