A SUPERMARKET IN CALIFORNIA 

          What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit- 
     man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees 
     with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. 
          In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, 
     I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of 
     your enumerations! 
          What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam- 
     ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives 
     in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, 
     Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the 
     watermelons? 

          I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old 
     grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator 
     and eyeing the grocery boys. 
          I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed 
     the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my 
     Angel? 
          I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of 
     cans following you, and followed in my imagination 
     by the store detective. 
          We strode down the open corridors together in 
     our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every 
     frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. 
          Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors 
     close in an hour. Which way does your beard point 
     tonight? 
          (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the 
     supermarket and feel absurd.) 
          Will we walk all night through solitary streets? 
     The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, 
     we'll both be lonely. 
          Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love 
     past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent 
     cottage? 
          Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage- 
     teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit 
     poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank 
     and stood watching the boat disappear on the black 
     waters of Lethe?