in my satchel (revised)

in my satchel:

three books of poetry
for three positions of the sun
a couple of avocados, still warm
and smelling of California, the south,
beaches, hermit crabs, salt
a tent, a purple one, with no front
flap, in case I want to let it all in
a black shirt that belonged to my once-
love, some clippings of his hair, a
letter given a week before he left me saying
“I love you love you love you, love,”
because someday I will probably need
something to burn
there are a few seeds, maybe
an amaryllis, sunflower, cantaloupe
and some coffee beans stolen from
the grinder in William Stafford's last home
there is room for the black forest,
if it is folded up neatly and tied with some twine
also, a jar of salsa to smash on the sidewalk
and scream “murder!” a spoon,
to scoop dirt from the earth
and bury the dead.