I’m in the dairy aisle
when the old man stumbles
toward me. If an apple

is falling, he asks,
is the moon also falling?
We are alone

with the creams
and cheeses. I pretend
not to hear him. Listen,

he says, something lives
in the core of a bullet.
Something

moves there. Something
hums. I fill my cart
with yogurt. Something

more than patience.
Something like a snake.
I search for packaged

vegetables, and he stares
at me as if he knows
my name. I have

to tell you, he whispers,
the world is not what you
want it to be.

He gestures wildly
at the frozen blueberries.
Every moment

another garden. His lined
hands close around mine.
His eyes are gray

and cold, cold and gray.
A moon in free-fall
every hour of every day.