The Mercy Supermarket, Campbell McGrath; from newyorker May 23, 2022 Issue
pollen from the burst-open, canoe-shaped pods
[…]
of the royal palms caught in the first
imperious shafts of sunlight
rising from the sea.
One flower resembles a puff of red lint,
another resembles a pig’s ear,
every petal, in this light, painted with deep lucid
particularity.Who else is in the market for a pint
[…]
of papaya juice, a scruple of compassion?
Would it help if we could itemize
every lost or misbegotten soul,the slightest of clerical errors,
one skewed letter in an ever-cascading text,
so how useful
can any catalogue of particulars be?
Why do we even have them—
hands, thumbs,
a heart,
this jawbone I hear click
as the rusty joints
swing open and closed,
