Transubstantiation

In the rank and file, nuts and bolts of Hardware
I spiral into the Aisle of Many Colors.
Two lovers lean over, perusing fiery shades
the gods, with erotic foresight, provide for bedrooms,

and a baby, teething, chews a sample card,
gumming it with her tiny incisors
while Mother saunters nuances of iris and azure.
And I, bent on my errand, not open to intervention

by clerks or gods, why am I suddenly weeping?
Is it from sorrow, joy, or that third condition,
the precision of seeing exactly what is before us?
When I pay, pass through those glass doors

am I merely leaving hardware, or giving myself
to the gleaming street? And that man at the curb
with that tin can for change: that's the bowl
I was sent here to fill. Kneel, give him your name.

Touch his hand. Kiss his mouth. Become whole.