Grains of Salt
I saw in a film a caravan of Kazakhs
carrying on the backs of their steer
copper cookware and felt tents for living.
Their end was the harvest of the evaporated shore of a saline lake.
As they coordinated their daily, labored movements
truck after truck drove by, leaving in their wake
excess salt on a dry wind
and hardly anything more.
And something about them in their monotony
reminded me of you that day in the Von’s.
Specifically, at the moment when you said,
with one hand reaching toward a box of Mini-Wheats,
that you were most in love.