I buy them like fruit,

my body
still on the bike,

one foot grounded.
This one like a wedge

of lime on my lip.
Idiot machines

clench these colours
together in some grainy

province, 
craft

ravelled down
to whatever thread’s

cheapest, raw cord
around the waist,

three cuts: head, arms. 
This one slides

from its hanger, a ripe
weight in my hand,

crazed yellow strung
from the machine’s

tropic mind. 
The street slings past.

A man pushes 
his fruit cart, calls out.

I lay the dress 
in my basket, hand over

blanched banknotes, 
and though I know

this appetite can’t be met
by a dress

it is so delicious
that both my feet

are already off the ground.