Apricots

Cradled in the lap of the Pyrenees,
the small town buzzed in late afternoon sun.

I wandered narrow streets by market stalls
where displays of strange offerings called to me:

stiff, skinned rabbits with glassy eyes,
fur-lined leather gloves and slippers,

warm baguettes and pain au chocolat.
And sunset-colored apricots.

It was a time I made love to no one,
though everything tasted new.

In the evenings I sat on the balcony, slowly
prying open soft balls of fruit, light gathering

the blues, and bats swooped around me—
but not too close, never colliding.