Bazaar

I require one day at a bazaar:
walking down long aisles joyously
congested with people – all tactile limbs
reaching to finger the imported 
linen napkins from India
and the gauzy fur of the taxidermist’s rabbit.
And the smell of toffee,
tremendous in its vast sugary swells,
with light shivering in through
the blown-glass wind chimes.
Bracelets strung like red fireworks, 
followed by yards of indigo-dyed yarn,
rolls of fabric, leather, real copper, bronze.
Everything so spilling over in opulence,
luxuriant profusion, we can only hear the sound
of things clattering, breaking, rustling into bags.

And then: emerging into the sun-steeped
outside, our arms covered in sugar,
picking apart crust and bread dough 
with identical floured fingers.